Like Metal to a Smith
by Girlbird
Summary: Thrown together in a match made out of necessity and convenience and duty, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth and the Horse Lord marry. Eomer, affected too deeply from a life of loss, tries to close his heart. But love can come to even the most unwilling...
1. An Unpleasant Shock

[A/N: I haven't published a fanfiction for about four years, so I'm a little nervous. Feedback, reviews, anything is welcome.

Disclaimer: I have no claim on Lord of the Rings or anything related to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is a work of fanfiction.]

Chapter 1: An Unpleasant Shock

_- September of 3029, The Third Age _-

Lothiriel was not in the best of sorts this bleak and chilly morning. She hadn't been even at the start of the day, waking up feeling listless and not at all willing to leave the comfort of her bed. This sentiment was uncharacteristic, for Lothiriel typically was eager to embrace the day, and yet perhaps it was explainable. In the months since she had returned from Minas tirith with her father and brothers following the celebrations of King Elessar's coronation and marriage, days for Lothiriel had returned to feeling empty and without a purpose, for all that she was glad to be home. Lothiriel did not like idleness on end, and what was more, by her time in the white city, she felt changed. Like so many others who had witnessed such a war as had just ended, life for Lothiriel could never go back to what for her had been normal, childlike innocence, frivolity and ignorance.

It was not that she herself had been in battle, or that any loved ones had been killed – thankfully her family had escaped the blade, the only major injury to speak of being Amrothos' broken wrist. But first she had held the fief of Dol Amroth together in the absence of her father and brothers, weathering out the storm while trying to maintain the spirits of her people. It had been difficult, to say the least. Then, when the darkness began to lift, signaling the fall of the dark lord Sauron, Lothiriel had ridden to Minas tirith. There, she had spent her time in the Houses of Healing, tending the wounded. There, she had seen the face of utter pain and suffering, and while she felt she had been faring relatively well, the experience was not one she would soon forget.

Before the war, Lothiriel had been, in her own eyes, a silly girl who loved pretty clothes and horses, filling her head with romantic stories and thoughts of young men. She had laughed often, teased her brothers, and embraced the simplicity of her life, her greatest joy had been to make people smile. This is not to say that there was never any sadness in her life, but that she had found life beautiful in spite of its trials.

Now, though she had not lost her ability to laugh, or her joy in her family, or even her taste for pretty clothes, life for her had changed. It held beauty for her still, but it seemed to her far more precious, and perhaps a little harder to find. And at eighteen, she felt she was far less a child and far more an adult. She found that now she was thinking of the future. But to her, it seemed as if there was no future inside these Dol Amroth walls. It was as if her world wished her to remain the girl she had been before the war, when that girl no longer existed. Lothiriel did not know how to move forward.

Still, eventually she rose from her bed, and dressed with the unneeded but customary assistance of her handmaiden, Ninniach, and made her way to the parlor where she knew her brothers and father would be breaking their fast together. Or rather, by this hour, would have finished eating and would most likely be talking, or idling for a few precious moments before their duties snatched them away.

Lothiriel grinned wryly to herself as she walked down the corridors. None of the men in her family moved quickly in the morning. She had been a rare one, but perhaps now she was becoming like the rest.

But as she neared the doorway to the sitting room, she heard an unfamiliar voice among the voices of her family. She stopped, then realized it was only Eomer, the King of Rohan, whom her father had asked to stay a few days. Lothiriel sighed and lingered behind the doorway, not wanting to go in.

It was not that she disliked the man – he had given her no reason to do so. It was more that she found him infuriatingly grave, although that sobriety was not without reason. She knew vaguely that life had not been kind to him, yet still - she did not think she had never seen him smile, let alone laugh. He was always respectful to her, but his presence unsettled her. Something in his eyes always seemed appraising, in a way that Lothiriel felt suggested that he thought much more of things than he spoke, and she was uncomfortable in wondering what he thought when he looked at her.

Her father's voice carried through the door, which was cracked only slightly. "Relations between Rohan and Gondor are starting to heal now, but I hesitate to say that that friendship is strong." Lothiriel lifted her hand to knock. If they were discussing politics, she wanted to be involved.

"But if Eomer marries Lothiriel –," interjected Erchirion, and after scarcely a moment of letting that sink inLothiriel felt as if she had been slapped.

Marry Eomer? Marry Eomer? Scarcely able to breathe for the shock of it, Lothiriel let her hand fall, and as it fell, it whacked on the doorknob with a thunk. She gasped in pain.

"Who is it?" her father called, and she had no choice but to enter, her cheeks flushed for having been caught eavesdropping, although to her credit she had not meant to eavesdrop at all, but had lingered there in reaction to what she had just learned.

All heads turned as she stepped through the doorway, and as Lothiriel scanned their faces, all looked surprised, then guilty as they read her expression.

"Good morning, Papa, Erchirion. Amrothos. Lord Eomer," she said, curtsying (Elphir was not there, as usual he was with his own wife and children). She was unable to keep the biting tension out of her voice, or her shoulders as she rose, head held high. She met their gazes, scarcely able to speak. "How could you?"

After an awkward moment in which her father and brothers exchanged glances – Eomer was looking away uncomfortably– Amrothos cleared his throat. "Lothiriel -" he began, but Lothiriel glared at him and he got no further. This was her closest brother, her playmate, her confidante, and he too was part of the scheme to plan her life?

"No," Lothiriel said fiercely, her voice trembling. "No." With that, she turned to go, slamming the door on her way out.


	2. Explanations

Chapter 2: Explanations?

Stalking away down the hall, Lothiriel's knees nearly gave out and she had to stop walking and place a hand on the wall to keep her bearings. "Eru help me," she whispered, not knowing what to do. She knew she was acting like a child. She knew that she had never had much to hope for in the way of marriage – an arranged match had always been likely for her. But she had always dreamt that perhaps she would be lucky enough to be matched with a man she loved. She had _hoped._

And Eomer? She let out a shaky breath and slumped against the wall. He was not that man. He seemed to her so brooding, tall and proud, wild and forbidding. He always looked unhappy. Perhaps he was a good man, brave, handsome in his way, a warrior, but she could not marry him.

Footsteps approaching caused her to look up, only to find that the man had followed her. She flushed and straightened, lowering her gaze, not knowing quite what to do or say. He looked as if he felt the same. Lothiriel hid her shaking hands in her skirt and turned to go, but only got so far as a few steps before she realized how rude she was being and spun to face him, her eyes lowered.

Eomer could not stand it.

"My lady," he said at last, clearing his throat. "Are you all right?"

She shook her head and shrugged. "Please forgive me for my display back there, I was taken by surprise," she managed, and turned away, clutching at her skirts. They were standing by a large window that gave way to a sweeping expanse of rocky cliffs and sand and stormy grey sea. Eomer watched her sink down onto the window seat with a rustle of yellow silk.

"So they mean for us to marry," Lothiriel said, her gaze flicking up to him. "I take it you knew?"

There was little Eomer could say. He cleared his throat. "It has been suggested."

Her eyes widened. 'Is that why you came? To court me?" she asked. Whether she was accusing him, Eomer could not be sure, but his moment's hesitation was enough to give him away. "It is, isn't it?" She sighed, turning her face away once more to look out the window. Her manner was now calm, graceful and collected, but beneath it Eomer detected the tremor in her hands and the waver in her voice. She was uncomfortable.

Eomer took a breath. "Yes, in part," he conceded. "May I sit?" She nodded, scooting over on the seat's cushion to give him room – and plenty of it. "My lady –"

"Please. I would have it that you call me by my name, if we are to be – " Her voice broke off and she swallowed, raising her eyes to meet his. Hers were frank and level, almost challenging yet… frightened? Were those tears threatening to well up in those grey-green depths?

"Lothiriel, then," he began. "No one will force you to do anything you do not want to do."

She looked down again, apparently very interested in the embroidery that ornamented the cushion's edge. "Are you so certain, when you tell me this?" she asked after a moment. "For why else would you have come all the way to Dol Amroth, leaving your people though it must cost you to do so, if not out of duty?" Eomer opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand and continued, "I know fully well that a union between us would strengthen the new ties between Gondor and Rohan, and that my dowry would aid you in the rehabilitation of your country. For what other reason than this would you have agreed to marry a woman you had never met, taking her from her very home?"

"You speak for me, and you may very well be correct in your assumptions," Eomer replied quietly. "But what I feel I owe to my country may not be the same for you, and –"

"We are not so different that I would not feel so compelled to do what my country asks of me!" interrupted Lothiriel. "Duty! Duty is what they will use to convince me to marry you, and it will be just as if I was forced into it, as it is for you."

Eomer met her gaze, offended for reasons he could not pinpoint. "I should let it be known that I came here of my own accord, knowing that as a King I must have a Queen. Your father, my friend, had told me of you, that he thought you had the makings of a queen and that were you willing, he would grant permission. Furthermore, I came on the condition that if you were unwilling, then that would be the end of it. I have no desire to make you unhappy and I repeat that no one," he paused and searched her face. "No one would force you into a union with me." He sighed. "And as you appear unwilling, then we can have nothing left to say to each other." With that, he stood. "Good day, my lady."

But as he turned to go, he felt a hand on his arm. "Wait." He looked down to see her hand resting on his sleeve, a hand that was small and gracefully shaped but slightly rough and with several broken fingernails. For all her lovely clothes and – with the exception of this morning's display – fine manners and grace, this was no delicate court lily. Eomer raised his eyebrows.

Lothiriel quickly removed her hand and lowered her gaze, a faint pink tinge in her cheeks. She seemed at a loss for words. "I'm – so sorry," she said haltingly. "I only wish to ask you, my lord, although perhaps it is not my place, why do you not marry for love? Is there something so lacking in the women of Rohan?"

Eomer's jaw tightened. "No, but I will not marry for love." He turned to go, but her voice stayed him once more.

"I cannot help but ask you why," she continued, standing up. Eomer was momentarily struck by her height. She was not exceptionally tall, coming up only to his chin, but something about the way she carried herself made her seem taller. "What kind of marriage can there be, if not one of love?" Although her voice was controlled, there was passion in her eyes, and he did not know why, but Eomer was compelled to justify himself.

"If you really care to listen, I will try to explain," he replied after a moment. "But not here. Someplace… someplace where we can feel the wind on our faces, if you do not mind." Although the palace was for the most part airy and open, even drafty, here he felt confined.

"Would you care to ride?" Lothiriel asked after a pause. "Along the shore, we can go for quite a good distance and ride abreast so that we may speak."

"Yes, to ride would be a blessing," Eomer replied. "If that is indeed to your liking."

"Shall I meet you in the stables in fifteen minutes, then?" Lothiriel asked, and Eomer agreed, wondering how he was going to speak of things he had kept silent for years.

Lothiriel swept into her rooms, her thoughts racing. Ninniach was not there, but this was all right with Lothiriel for she preferred to dress herself. She quickly slipped out of her gown and into her riding habit, boots, and a heavy cloak, protection from the wind on the beach. It was not a warm day. She briefly wondered if it would be appropriate to ride astride in the company of a man who was not family, but dismissed the thought. For whatever reason, she believed that Eomer would not think twice about it. As she removed the pearl ornaments from her mass of dark hair, and gathered it up at to pin at the nape of her neck, she wondered why she had stopped Eomer from walking away. Did it matter, as long as she knew that she would not be forced into an arranged marriage?

Yes. There must have been something, something painful perhaps, that drove him to pursue an engagement, for she thought it virtually impossible that someone would wish for an arranged marriage. Certainly, the prospect might be appealing for one who was shy or awkward or unattractive, but as far as she could tell, King Eomer did not fit this description in the slightest. What could be so terrible that would turn bitter the prospect of love?

Grabbing her gloves on her way out of her chamber, Lothiriel started towards the stables. There was something about him that ignited Lothiriel's curiosity. Although she had no intention of marrying him, or even of becoming his friend, she was drawn to try to understand him.

---

Out on the open beach, with the wind in his hair and his horse beneath him once more, Eomer felt himself start to settle down. At least, his thoughts were somewhat in order and his heartbeat was starting to return to normal.

He studied Lothiriel. She rode well, almost as well as his sister, perhaps. She had a natural seat and her hands were firm but soft on the horse's reins. When the horse shied at a wayward seagull, she moved with the horse, not against it, and was quickly able to calm him down. Eomer was impressed.

Lothiriel too appeared to have calmed down once they had begun to ride. Looking at her now as she urged her horse ahead of him and into the ocean spray, Eomer saw that it was almost as if she had forgotten her troubles. Indeed, it appeared to him that perhaps for the moment she had forgotten why they were there, two people who were close to strangers, riding on a beach.

Yards ahead, Lothiriel turned to look back at him. There was laughter on her lips as her horse pranced in the salt water, hoofs held high in an almost finicky manner. Despite himself, Eomer's heart clenched. She was a beautiful young woman, smiling or not. But while earlier, full of sorrow and discomfort she had appeared much older, more tragic and pale, almost fragile like a ghost, at the moment she was glowing, laughing, very alive. It was breathtaking, and Eomer wondered if by asking her to be his wife he was doing a terrible thing.

She was so young and lovely and soft and flighty, full of hope and passion and longing. He saw those emotions welling underneath her skin – close to the skin, and yet contained, except when they jumped out, of course.

Eomer saw she was joyous despite the fact that she too had lived through hardships of her own - he was sure of it. Exactly what had passed, he could not exactly say, but he knew that parts of her life had been difficult. Of course they would have been, living in such troubled times. He knew that she deserved much more than a tense, arranged marriage to a jaded, unhappy and grieving man who had lived a life so very different from hers. If for some reason she agreed to be his wife, would he be shutting off that light inside of her, condemning her to years of unhappiness and disappointment? Eomer shuddered inside as he met her laughing eyes.

As the two looked at each other, Lothiriel's smile faded and her gaze became serious. She seemed to be remembering why they were there, why she was riding with this stranger who was asking for her hand.

By this time, Eomer had pulled up alongside Lothiriel and her horse, and there was nothing left to do but speak. That, or continue on in silence. Eomer, who did not know how to break the tension between them, was leaning towards the latter, and it seemed as though Lothiriel was likewise inclined. Finally, Eomer cleared his throat.

"You ride well," he said casually. "As if you were raised on horseback."

Lothiriel ducked her head. "Well, I was, in a sense. My father started to put me in the saddle in front of him when I was just a little girl. And then, when I was a little older, maybe five or six, I begged him to let me ride by myself. I was not about to be outdone by my brothers, you see. And my father was of a like mind. He was not about to let his little girl grow up to be helpless." She smiled wistfully, a smile that quickly turned bitter. "He always told me he wanted me to be independent, strong, able to make up my own mind." She looked away from Eomer. "And now, it appears that none of this was true."

So here we are at last, Eomer thought. "But your father is giving you the right to make your own choice, my lady," he said. "It is entirely up to you to accept my proposal - a proposal which I have yet to formally make."

"Let us just say that your intentions are understood," Lothiriel replied. "You need not bother going through all that. But here, we have come to the point where you must answer my question. You say that you will not marry for love, but why? Marrying for other reasons – or at least, doing so of one's own accord seems to me unfathomable."

Eomer sighed. "I know. But you see, Lothiriel… there are things that keep me from a marriage of love, things in my past that I cannot, and perhaps do not want to, overcome."

"Please, for my sake, tell me." She furrowed her brow. "If it is not too difficult for you, at least. Forgive me, I do not mean to pry."

Eomer shook his head. "You have every right to wonder," he replied. "And as I promised, I will tell you."

[A/N: Heheh, I've left you with a cliffhanger. Thank you all for your reviews!]


	3. A Change of Heart

Chapter 3: A Change of Heart

"My parents were very much in love," Eomer began. "Happy, not exactly without care, for times were difficult even then. But they were content, deeply attached to each other. When my father was killed… it broke my mother, Lothiriel. She became just an empty shell, leaving my sister and I to fend for ourselves without a mother's love and guidance. She died soon after. I was nearly a man by this time, and I fared all right, but my sister? Her childhood had ended too soon.

"I was angry… angry that love, which was until then something noble and great, had left such damage in its aftermath. How could something that was supposed to be a gift bring so much pain?"

Eomer looked out towards the sea, and Lothiriel bit her lip. She wished she could find an answer to that question, but she was at a loss for words. Sensing that there was more, much more, that he was about to tell her, she simply said, "Go on."

"I was not, however, entirely set in that opinion and then," Eomer swallowed. His gaze was far off, on the horizon. "Eventually, I fell in love."

Lothiriel was not entirely surprised, but she kept silent.

"She was the daughter of the woman who had been my mother's dearest handmaiden. Perhaps we were not quite of the same social class, but nearly so, and no one who knew of our relationship had any objections." Eomer took a breath. "I should have married her as soon as we realized we loved each other, but…"

"Why didn't you?" Lothiriel asked softly.

Eomer shook his head. "In part for selfish reasons, I now realize. I was constantly riding with the Rohirrim, and I did not want to be tied down to caring for and providing for a wife, as much as I loved her. And then there was the timing – the War was beginning and I knew that there was a strong chance that I could be killed in battle. I did not want to make her a wife and then a widow in a matter of months. I thought that in the slim chance that there would someday be peace, then I would marry her, and if peace did not come, then it would hardly have made a difference. And then…" Eomer's face was shielded by his curtain of golden hair, but Lothiriel saw his grief and regret in the line of his shoulders.

"What happened?" she asked, somehow sensing the answer before he replied. She thought that she was beginning to understand, and she was so caught up in his story, in the gravity and raw emotion in his voice, that her lips and chin were beginning to tremble.

"She died," Eomer said, clenching his fists around the reins. Firefoot felt the tension in his master's body and came to a standstill. Lothiriel stopped also.

"How?"

"She became ill with a disease in her blood, and no healer could cure her. I had been away for a time, and when I returned, she was impossibly weak and in great pain. Somehow she lived for almost two more months, but then she could not hang on any longer and I had to let her go. It has been nearly three years since."

Lothiriel bowed her head, feeling her heart clench with pity. She had known that Eomer had experienced loss in his life – she knew a little about his family and his history. She knew that the war had left so many people psychologically wounded even in this time of peace. But she had not expected that there had been yet another tragedy in Eomer's life. She could only imagine such pain.

She brought her hand to her face and it came away wet with unrealized tears. She stared at her hand. There was no need for him to say anymore. She raised her head to study the man. "You have not had the –" she stopped herself. "That is, I think even after all this time you still have not had time to grieve over her properly, have you?" Eomer did not respond, although she saw him lift his chin a little. Lothiriel took it as an affirmation. "Perhaps we should start to ride back. Or if you wish to remain, I shall leave you."

He shook his head as if to clear it. "Let us return," was all he said, and so together they rode back the way they came, once more in silence, although now the silence was less tense and more subdued. Little had changed, for things were still awkward between them, but it seemed now as if they had formed a tentative… something.

"I am so sorry," Lothiriel said finally. "And I am sorry that I have made you speak of such a difficult thing."

He shrugged and looked at her briefly. "I thought it something that you deserve to know, given the circumstances. I hope that now maybe you see why I find it impossible to marry for love."

Lothiriel hesitated. "I think so. You have seen firsthand how loss has affected the ones that you love, and you yourself have loved deeply and lost," she took a breath. "Not just your lover, but many others in your life as well, I know. Of course people talk. And so, I am trying to understand. It seems to me that you are unwilling to look for love again because you deeply associate love with loss." Eomer looked at her, astonished. She bit her lip. "Is that right, milord?"

"Well, yes, very much so," he said, still looking at her with a strange expression on his face. "But there is more, something far more basic. I loved her more than life itself, and with her gone, I have no desire to love again. I know that to seek a marriage of love would be futile, because I will not, I cannot, love again. My heart will not let me." He paused.

"And yet, Rohan must have a queen, Lothiriel. And this is what has brought me to you, a woman who I hardly know and yet who seems that she would be capable, were she willing, and yet who is young and full of hope and ideals and who deserves so much more than a loveless match." He said the last words with guilt, and looked down at his hands. "Which is why I think it so important that she consider her choice carefully. I wish not to cause her unhappiness."

Lothiriel looked at him as he said this speech, and felt her heart slowly change. It was painful, as if someone had reached inside her chest and twisted, and yet it was a permanent new shape. Her course was set, and she knew that no matter how hard she tried she could not refuse him now. But strangely, as frightened and as hopeless as she felt, she did not want to try. Although she could not see any hope for her happiness, she felt that it would be cowardly and selfish to say no to this poor, sad man, for whom she had gained a new respect. Despite his personal discomfort, he was nobly and bravely trying to aid his country.

It felt like an age as Lothiriel opened her mouth to seal her fate. "I will marry you," she choked out finally, quickly. "I cannot refuse." Then, tears blinding her eyes, she kicked her horse into a gallop and left him.

------

Imrahil knocked on his daughter's door, feeling about to burst with the combination of pride, concern, and wonderment that had come upon him after hearing of his daughter's seemingly sudden change of heart. Earlier, Eomer had come to him and told him what had happened that afternoon, appearing equally flummoxed as he expressed his own concern over Lothiriel's refusal. The man, Eru bless him, was now worried that Lothiriel would be compromising her own happiness by accepting his proposal.

After receiving no response from within Lothiriel's chambers, Imrahil knocked again, and then again a third time. Lothiriel's voice, rough and sharp from what he guessed was crying, called "Who is it?"

"Your father," Imrahil replied. "May I come in?" She was silent for a while. Finally, he heard her stalking defiantly to the door. As she opened it, Imrahil had to suppress a fatherly grin. His daughter, gentle and collected on the outside, had the temper of a kraken when provoked or frustrated, and when she was troubled, had the depth of the sea behind her eyes. Currently, the sea was stormy and a chasm had opened, about to breathe flame.

Lothiriel wordlessly stepped aside to let her father enter, then returned to her window seat, which was in hopeless disarray.

"Have you been here all evening?" Imrahil said gently. She looked out the window and let out a ragged sigh.

"Yes," she said bitterly, her eyes flashing. "I take it you have heard?"

Imrahil nodded. He knew that the best way to approach his daughter when she was angry was by using the care that one might use when navigating through broken glass. "May I sit, daughter?" She moved over to make room for him, her eyes fixed on the view of the sea and the rocks that her window afforded her, but did not speak.

Imrahil took a breath. "So you have changed your mind since morning, and therefore have accepted his proposal, and yet it brings you no joy."

"I have not changed my mind," Lothiriel replied. She did not look at him. "I still do not want to be queen of Rohan or any country, and I still do not want to leave my homeland, and I still most definitely do not want to marry Eomer, father." She picked at the edging of her sleeve, which was spotted with tears. "And yet I have accepted his proposal, as I know you knew I would."

The lines around Imrahil's mouth deepened. "I did have the feeling that you would accept it, but I was not sure."

Lothiriel raised her head. Her lips were trembling. "Why? Why did you offer my hand to Eomer?" Her hands gripped her own elbows with a strength that threatened to bruise. "You knew that I would not be able to refuse."

Imrahil shook his head. "Your hand is not mine to offer, daughter." He reached out and took those hands in his own. They too were trembling and tense. "You know that."

"I do not understand, then," Lothiriel said, staring down at their hands. Imrahil realized how small her hands must still seem to her, encased in his own large and callused palms. He tried to calm their quaking.

"Lothiriel, look at me." She shook her head. "Please. Listen and I will explain. As you already know, I befriended Eomer in Minas tirith. I could tell that he was deeply unhappy, but I did not know the whole of why. And then he told me that he was looking for a wife, a queen to help rehabilitate Rohan and its people, and his story spilled out." Lothiriel's hands were starting to still. Imrahil raised his daughter's chin. "And I thought of you. My daughter, who is strong, and brave, and capable under pressure. Who cares deeply about her own people, and her duty to them."

"You knew then, that duty would compel me to accept him," Lothiriel interjected.

"Let me finish. Pray, I did not think of a marriage to Eomer as your duty. But I thought that perhaps because you care so much about your own people, you would find it within yourself to care about those in Rohan. And while you would help find healing for Rohan, you might also soothe the pain of Eomer along the way, and find solace of your own, for I know you have your own hurts to heal."

Lothiriel, after sitting for a minute to take this all in, shook her head. "I do not believe that I could help any of those that you mentioned, for I have not the knowledge of ruling that is necessary, and my pain would be tied to Eomer's, and I do not believe that Eomer could heal by my hand or anyone else's. For he does not want to heal, Papa."

Imrahil chuckled. "So it appears. But you have seen this in him, proving that you have a deeper insight than you know," he replied. "And I have confidence that you would be a good Queen, good for Rohan."

"As would be my dowry," Lothiriel muttered. Imrahil chuckled.

"Yes, but without your guidance of how to put it to use, it would no doubt be wasted." He smoothed a lock of hair away from her brow. "Not that Eomer is incapable, of course, but he is a warrior at heart, not a healer of lands and people. And he is petrified." Imrahil chuckled. "Though he would kill me if you told him I said that."

Lothiriel let out something that might have been a laugh.

"But my daughter. This morning, when you stumbled upon the idea, it appeared that you would prove me wrong, that you would refuse. I confess I would have been disappointed, but I would not have loved you any less for it." He furrowed his brow. "And now, yet again, you surprise me, and confuse us all. You have accepted him, and neither Eomer nor I can attest to what has changed your mind. And Eomer," he paused. "He is concerned that you are compromising your happiness for the wrong reasons, and bids me tell you that he will not think any less of you if you say no."

"And I thank him." Lothiriel looked distressed. "And I confess that I am not sure why either. He told me his story and that, even though it causes him discomfort, he is looking for an arranged marriage for the good of his people, but that he did not want me to say yes against my will. And… well… something changed within me, and I knew could not let myself say no, even though I dearly wished it."

She buried her face in her hands, and Imrahil put his arms around his youngest and shushed her tears, full of sorrow and pride and thinking that perhaps things were going to work out the way he hoped after all, for both his daughter and for his friend.

--

[A/N: See, I didn't leave you hanging too long from the last chapter!

Once again, I thank you for your wonderful reviews, and I hope you still enjoy where this is going. I'm scared that this plot won't work out, but after two years of thinking about it, I'm glad I'm finally going for it. And I'm sorry I've made poor Eomer into such an angsty character. I blame the movies. I don't think Karl Urban ever smiles!

Please review! Constructive criticism (if you have it) is welcome, I want this to be good.]


	4. Waiting

Chapter 4: Waiting

_October_ -

Several days later, Lothiriel stood on the shining white stone premise of the castle, watching the man she was to marry ride away with his company of men down the marble-paved road that wound through the city, which stretched out for perhaps a little over a mile before her. She could not help but feeling a little frightened as Éomer rode away, as if now the reality of her situation was starting to sink in. In a little less than two months, she would be traveling the same road to Rohan.

The two had spoken only a little after that day on the beach where their future had been determined. With time to think, Lothiriel understood now a little better why she herself had felt compelled to accepted him. Even more than she had felt bound by honor to accept when faced with his selflessness towards his country, she had felt compassion. His life was tragic, and yet she saw he was bravely trying to soldier on as best he knew how. He was trying to rebuild his country, lead his people, heal them, even if he could not heal himself. And he needed her to help him. Lothiriel could not help but feel honored, now, upon reflection, that she had been chosen. Her life of late had felt to her stuck in monotony, meaningless. Thus, a small part of her was beginning to look on this marriage as an escape, a chance to bring purpose to her life again.

But overall, she was petrified, first of being queen, and then of being a wife. Her heart skipped a beat when she thought of marrying Éomer, and not in a way that was pleasing. Rather, it was as if a hand squeezed in her chest. She saw life with Éomer as difficult at best. Perhaps they would learn to adjust, maybe even come to depend on each other. Maybe a quiet affection would bloom, a friendship, but neither would be first in the other's heart. Any dreams Lothiriel had of being loved by her husband – and of loving him in return – now seemed to her very unlikely.

The night before had been a banquet honoring the betrothal. Never in Lothiriel's life had there been a night of more forced smiles and half-hearted merrymaking, at least at her table. She had been seated, of course, next to Éomer, almost on display, she felt, and there were no words to describe the awkwardness between them. While they had certainly been able to speak somewhat freely on the beach, in the company of others, their conversation became stilted.

When the dancing began, she had of course been expected to dance at least one dance with Éomer. Her face hot, she had placed her hand in his and gritted her teeth in a pasted-on smile that she could feel wavering with every step. She had been surprised to find that Éomer moved with considerable grace, given his height and muscular frame. She had vaguely wondered what it would be like to dance with Éomer under different circumstances, as lovers. It would be quite a bit different, she imagined. When the dance had ended, he had squeezed her hand and met her eyes briefly, his expression characteristically unreadable, before Amrothos whisked her off to dance with him, the first in a succession of other partners, eager to dance with their princess.

And now Éomer had gone, leaving her to say her goodbyes and make preparations to wed him. But how did one prepare to marry a stranger? How did one become a queen? How did one say goodbye to a place and to people whom one loved so dearly? Lothiriel did not know.

---

_November -  
_

Back in Rohan, Éomer found himself on an edge. He would wake up in the early hours of the morning, his heartbeat quickening, feeling as if there was something pressing on his mind that had to be taken care of, but unsure of what it was. And then – collapsing back onto his bed in defeat - he would remember that he was King, and that Lothiriel would be here within a month, in early December. They would marry in yet another, in the first month of the coming year.

There were dreams too, but then in his sleep there were always dreams, mostly haunting. There were desperate images of battle scenes, punctuated by the screams of orcs and dying soldiers and, tangled up in everything, shifting visions of his sister Éowyn lying broken in the healing houses, of Breya fading into blackness, and now of Lothiriel, her eyes full of tears as she gazed at him against a backdrop of stormy sea.

Éomer dropped his head into his hands as he sat in the Golden Hall one troubled morning, waiting for reports of displaced refugees in nearby villages as well as those in Edoras. Many peasants, particularly those from the villages closest to the borders of Rohan, had been displaced by raids and attacks by orcs and Wildsmen. And these refugees were the lucky ones – many people had died. The situation was both tedious and troubling to Éomer, for there were currently too many people trying to live in too small a space, and without sufficient supplies or provisions.

"Éomer King?"

He raised his head. "What is it, Éothain?" he asked his friend and steward, more gruffly then he meant to.

"Nothing. Are you all right?" The man said rather awkwardly after a moment. "I am concerned about you, my friend."

"Oh, I am fine," Éomer muttered. "I have a headache, is all." He leaned back in the throne and let out a breath. "How does one learn to become a king when all one knows is how to ride horses into combat?"

"You are a natural leader, sire," Éothain replied. "Must I really assure you of that after all this time?" He sounded exasperated.

"I can lead men in battle," Éomer countered. "I can take up my sword and cry out a brave oath, raising the fighting spirits of my soldiers, certainly. But that has hardly any relevance here, when I must figure out how to save my people from starvation and rebuild my country. "

"You are not alone, sire," Éothain said, laying a hand on his friend and commander's shoulder.

"Aye, that I am not," Éomer agreed after a time, his heart lightened marginally, but it quickly sank again as he remembered. "And there are all these damned preparations to make before Lothiriel comes, on top of everything else."

Éothain grinned as if amused. "You speak as if her coming is a funeral, sire."

Although Éothain spoke in jest, Éomer thought that the exaggeration could almost be the case, but he said nothing other than, "You need not call me sire, Éothain, after all these years. In fact, please do not."

The other man seemed to be fighting back a smile. "Very well, if you are certain." He paused and cleared his throat. "The men and I cannot help but wonder, is she very pretty?"

Éomer shrugged. "I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Do you mean to say you did not notice?"

Opening his mouth to retort, Éomer closed it again. "Aye," he said quietly. "Quite lovely, I should say, although her nose is a bit too strong for conventional beauty."

"Well, perhaps she will melt that stony heart of yours and lift your spirits some, sire." Éothain bowed as Éomer glared at him. "Begging your leave."

Éomer watched his insolent friend depart from the hall and he called, "I would not count much on it." But the great doors had swung shut.

------

Time had passed, seeming to creep along and yet then gone too quickly, and Lothiriel was to travel to Rohan in a week. She fixed her eyes on herself in the mirror, wondering at the change in her reflection. In the last month or so, her cheeks had lost some of the girlish roundness that had remained in her cheeks even at nineteen, but she could not attest to whether this was the cause of her lack of appetite as of late, or simply because she was finally growing up. But what really startled her was how her eyes seemed to her lately, frightened and nervous, undermined with faint shadows. She had not been eating much, nor sleeping, and it scared her.

Get a firmer hold of yourself, she said inwardly. Even though you are dreading the passing moments, there is no reason to worry yourself to death. She vowed to try to return her habits to normal, for otherwise she feared she would lose any control over herself.

Ninniach was busy combing out her mistress' hair that evening, a task that in itself sometimes took a quarter of an hour. Lothiriel smiled at the girl, who for as long as she could remember had been a companion as well as a handmaiden. When they were younger, they had played together as any two sisters, but as time had passed and they become young women, propriety had deemed it necessary that their easy friendship continue only in private, and even then, there were times when Lothiriel became the noble and Ninniach the maid.

Ninniach smiled back. "How are you this evening?" she asked as she deftly and gently worked the brush through a particularly nasty snarl.

Lothiriel shrugged. "I am as well as can be expected," she said softly, and Ninniach, finished with her task, put down the brush and looked at Lothiriel in the mirror.

"Well, I know that you are dreading the coming weeks," she said frankly. "But - forgive me – aren't you at least a little excited at the same time, or at least curious? I know that, were I a little braver and in your position, I would want to see Rohan."

"Well, I am curious, but I would as sooner stay here. I do not know how I will ever call be able to call Rohan my home, when my heart is here," she replied. "And you are going to see Rohan, aren't you? You're coming with me." Ninniach would not meet her eyes, and it was as if a cloud had descended over the girl's sweetly delicate face. Lothiriel's mouth opened as she realized she had never even considered the question. "Aren't you?"

Ninniach took a few moments before responding. High color was in her cheeks. "Well, of course I will if you order it of me," she replied timidly. "It is not my place to refuse. And were things different, I would be glad to go. But please," she said, clasping her hands and gaining strength from some hidden reservoir. "Do you know what you would be requiring of me? Must I really leave my family, my life, my - " she stopped herself, blushing over whatever she had been about to say. "My home?"

Throughout this speech, Lothiriel stared at her, dumbfounded, and then, without thinking, she snapped, "Well, if I can do it, you certainly can."

Ninniach stepped back as if she had been slapped, and curtsied low. "Milady, I was not thinking. Forgive me," she said, her eyes cast down. "But…"

"But what?" Lothiriel said impatiently, then closed her eyes in regret. "You are forgiven."

Ninniach raised her eyes. "There is something that I need to tell you, something that I have not known how to say." All of a sudden, Lothiriel realized that her friend, though shaken, was somehow finding confidence within herself. She looked different, almost as if she was glowing. There was a light in her eyes that had not been there before.

"What is it?" Lothiriel asked, turning to look directly at the girl.

"I am with child," Ninniach answered after a moment, her tone serious but somehow serene. "And the father, Àerandir, is someone who I love very much, and who loves me in return. He has asked me to marry him, as soon as we can find the time. I did not tell you of him these past few months because we did not want anyone to know until we were certain what we felt was lasting – our families are very close friends and if things did not work out between us we did not want to strain their relationship – but then all of a sudden we were sure. I wanted to tell you then, but then you became engaged to Éomer and I did not think it fitting." She ducked her head. "And then I thought I was with child, but I could not know for sure until very recently."

Lothiriel did not know how she could have missed it. "You were sick but I thought it was just your monthlies. Quite the opposite, I now see." She brought her hands to her temples. Her head suddenly hurt and she felt like crying. "This changes everything."

Ninniach was at her side kneeling in an instant, burying her face in her mistress' skirts. "Oh Lothiriel," she cried. "Please know I do not wish to cause you pain in exchange for my happiness." She raised her head. "But don't you see? Now I am responsible for the well-being of two, not just one."

Lothiriel nodded. "I do see, of course I do." She stood and raised her friend from the ground up to her level. "And of course you must stay here," she said, clasping Ninniach's hands. "I could not think to ask otherwise of you."

Ninniach's eyes lit up, but her lips remained sober. "I thank you. Please forgive me for not telling you."

Lothiriel shook her head and embraced her. "No, forgive me. For not seeing – everything – sooner." She released her friend. "Now, please, it is getting late and I wish to be alone." She smiled shakily. "Goodnight, Nee."

With tears in her eyes and gratitude on her lips, Ninniach curtsied and left, though not before glancing back to see that her friend and mistress had turned back towards the mirror and was sitting, very, very still.

-----

"I say, sister, you look as if you are on your way to a funeral."

Lothiriel, who was walking listlessly down the corridor that led away from her chamber, lost in thought as usual of late, jumped and spun around to face her brother.

"Amrothos, must you always come out of nowhere?" she snapped, her hands on her hips.

He held up his hands in mock-defense. "I was standing right here, actually, waiting for you. What's with the mourning garb?" he teased, gesturing to her dark, rather plain gown.

"My cat died," she retorted, smoothing her grey skirts with a flounce and moving to walk past him, but Amrothos jumped in front of her.

"You do not even have a cat, Lothiriel," he reminded her, grinning.

"Well, perhaps I am mourning my lack of one," Lothiriel said darkly. "Please let me pass."

"No," Amrothos took her arm and led her down the hall instead. "Walk with me."

Lothiriel rolled her eyes and let him guide her along. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere. I just wanted to talk with my sister," he said rather sincerely, although Lothiriel saw a flicker of worry or some other hidden feeling pass across her brother's boyishly handsome face.

"You mean, father and everyone made you come talk to me," she confirmed.

He colored slightly. "Well, perhaps they did mention it. but I would have anyway. Lothiriel –" he broke off as she began to walk away quickly and grabbed her arm firmly. "Do not think you can get away with keeping all your feelings hidden from your family any longer. Locking yourself in your room will do no good, and walking away now is not the answer."

Lothiriel, fighting to get away from her brother, found tears starting to well up in her eyes. She turned back to her him, defeated. He took one look at her face and pulled her into his arms. "Oh, sister, " he murmured. "Shhh, it's all right."

Lothiriel buried her face against her brother's shoulder and let the tears flow silently, her shoulders shaking. While she was close to all of her brothers, Amrothos was the one she had always turned to first, perhaps because he was the nearest in age. He was almost like her twin in many ways, a grounded but upbeat nature to her often subdued, dreamer's one, teasing when she was unhappy, mellow and unshakeable while she was passionate and reactive. It was Amrothos who had first been able to bring a smile to her face after their mother had died, leaving four children and a father petrified of raising a family on his own. And now it was Amrothos who saw through her every attempt to maintain a brave face.

Amrothos drew away. "Come on, let us get you outside." He led his sister down the hall and through a dark plain door – a servant's passageway. "You look as if you are starting to wilt for lack of sun," he teased. Lothiriel wiped her eyes and followed, her resolve thoroughly gone.

Once outside, behind the castle and standing on the rocky cliffs that overlooked the open sea, Lothiriel was able to breathe a little freer. She took in the sweetly familiar view, her hair and skirts whipping about her in the strong ocean wind. The city of Dol Amroth was nestled amidst cliffs that rose out of an inlet called Cobas Haven. To their left, far below them stretched the expanse of sandy beach on which Lothiriel had ridden with Éomer that day on which everything had been decided.

That day, the sea had been quite grey, matching the sky. A moist chill of fog had crept in. But today the sea and sky were quite blue, and but for a few clouds, it was quite clear, although still chilly as it was late Autumn. On a day like this, the people of Dol Amroth would be rejoicing, Lothiriel thought wistfully. After all her years, she found herself still enamored of the many guises the sea could take on, changing in an instant from pleasant to angry to playful and back again, but always beautiful in its own right.

"I am going to miss the sea most of all, I should think," the girl said finally. She looked over to Amrothos. "Well, other than my family, of course. And Nee." He did not respond and she gathered her hair up and tried to tie it behind her, as it kept blowing in her face. "I suppose I have been trying to wean myself of this place by spending more and more time inside and away from everyone."

Amrothos studied her rather frankly. "You dread having to leave?"

She shrugged, stumbling for words. "I dread what I will find in Rohan," she managed. "I dread a life of endless unhappiness in a land far from the home and people I love."

Her brother put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "I doubt that will be your fate," he said. "You will make your own happiness and come to love Rohan, I am sure."

Lothiriel sighed. "And Éomer?" she asked him, shifting so she could meet her brother's gaze. "What of him?"

"Ahh," he said and laughed. "Is it Éomer you fear, then?"

Lothiriel chose not to answer that. "Do you know his story?"

"Yes, to a point," he said. "He does tend to wallow in his own misery a bit, I think, but it is understandable." He studied her face and tucked her hair behind her ear in a brotherly manner. "He is a brave man, and a good one."

"I know," Lothiriel said. "I saw it, and I accepted him because of it. But Amrothos, he is so unhappy and I hardly know him. His regard for me will never be more than cordial."

"He can be quite a good companion at times, believe it or not, sister." Amrothos laughed. "Somewhere behind that dark expression is a quite witty sense of humor. And his heart is gold."

Lothiriel did not quite believe the part about Éomer's humor, but it was not in her to argue. She sighed and took her brother's hand, giving it a squeeze. "Let's go inside. I need to think about packing."

-----

"What did you think of Àerandir when you met him today?" Ninniach asked the evening before Lothiriel left. The maid was folding underthings and stockings and putting them in one of her mistress' traveling trunks. Lothiriel was curled on her window seat, staring out at the sea, watching the sun sink lower and paint its blood-red fingers across the water. She did not want to leave the sanctuary of nothingness.

"Hmm?" she asked, glancing at the maid. "Oh. I thought he had a nice smile, handsome enough. And hopelessly in love with you," she smiled, "as was written on his face and his every movement." She shifted so that she was lying on her side and propped up her head on her hand. "My heart is at peace knowing that he will take care of you always, Eru willing."

Ninniach smiled, a smile that spoke of incredible happiness and gratitude. "Oh, Lothiriel, I am going to miss you so."

"And I you." Lothiriel sighed and looked away. "But I am happy for you."

Ninniach put down the chemise she was had just finished folding. "Perhaps it will not be so bad as you think it will," she reasoned.

"So I have been told again and again," Lothiriel retorted. "By those who have no idea what it must be like to leave one's home and marry a man I do not love. His heart will never be mine, Nee." She flung an arm across her face and rolled onto her back.

Ninniach sighed audibly. "I understand you are frightened, but if you keep this up, you _will_ be unhappy, but it will be because you doomed yourself to such a fate, not because of anything Rohan or Eomer will have done," she said quietly but firmly. "I say this to you because I wish for nothing more than your happiness."

Lothiriel sat up and wiped her eyes. "I know I am acting like a child," she said haltingly. "I know."

Ninniach stood and walked over to her friend, sitting beside her . "Well," she said with a teasing smile, "At least Éomer is such a fine figure of a man. I have no doubt he knows how to satisfy a woman…"

"How can you?" Lothriel gasped and let out a choking giggle. "Nee, you're in love with someone already! And pregnant, no less!"

"That does not mean I cannot look," her friend giggled, and her eyes softened as Lothiriel sobered and bowed her head.

"I do think him handsome, I suppose. If the circumstances were different, I – well – " Lothiriel broke off. "As it is, I am scared. With his heart as it is, with his grief, what if Éomer is indifferent, or rough with me? What if the people hate me?"

Ninniach wrapped her arms around her friend. "How could they hate you? You bring them hope." She paused. "And Éomer? Do you really think he will not respect you and be gentle with you, even if he does not love you? That is for you to answer for yourself, but I do no think he would hurt you, although I only know what I have heard of him."

"Why are you so wise?" Lothiriel asked. "You are the same age as me."

"_I_ know why," Ninniach responded, raising her eyebrows suggestively. "You will soon too." At this, Lothiriel hid her head in her arms, mortified with laughter. "Come on, dry your tears. We have dresses to pack, Princess."

------

[A/N: Sorry for the long wait. With school and dance getting back in session and college apps due, it's been hard to write…

If you're wondering why Éomer and Éowyn and Éothain (etc) all have accents over the E's, it's because I totally meant to in earlier chapters and forgot. I suppose it's more correct. Anyway, I am rambling. Thank you to all who reviewed or story alerted! I hope you'll keep reading. Next: Rohan!]


	5. An Exhausted Arrival

Chapter 5 : An Exhausted Arrival

Lothiriel's first impression of Rohan was of a cold, lifeless wasteland, the only real trees lining the rivers and in the forests on its borders. The tall, waving grasslands were dull and brown, for although it was winter, there was not yet snow to cover it. But it was bitterly cold, and her body was so wracked by shivering that she could barely think anymore, except thoughts of hopelessness and anger at such a dreary climate. Oh, the white-capped mountains had at first seemed to her majestic enough, but in her trancelike state, she hardly noticed them.

And today, she and two of her brothers – her father and Elphir would come later for the ceremony - as well as a small but sufficient group of guards would arrive at Edoras. And Lothiriel was dirty, saddle-sore, and chilled to the bone. Perched atop her mare, Faerveren, she was wearing nearly every item of clothing she owned that bore any resemblance to wool or leather, plus her brother's cloak over her own, yet was still utterly miserable.

"Keep scowling so, sister, and Éomer will take one look at you and send you straight back to Gondor," Amrothos said, riding up beside her.

Lothiriel glared at him. "Good," she managed through teeth gritted to keep from chattering.

"Are you still cold?" Amrothos asked, amused as usual. He himself was in only a shirt and overtunic, and gloves, cheeks pink from the cold but otherwise, it appeared, blissfully unaware of it.

Lothiriel refused to answer him. He chuckled. Erchirion, her second eldest brother, pulled up on her other side, concern on his dark, serious face. "We will be there in another hour or two. Take heart," he said.

"My hands can barely feel the reins," she retorted.

"Do not hold them, then, tuck them under your cloak against you," Erchirion said after a moment. "I will take Faerveren's reins."

Lothiriel hesitated for the moment, then nodded. "Thank you." It was difficult for to give up what little control she felt she had left, even for something so small. But Amrothos put a hand on her shoulder briefly, and she allowed herself to relax and be taken care of, for a while.

But when they finally did come within view of Edoras, Lothiriel squared her shoulders and took back the reins. She was determined to try to hide her discomfort as best she could and try to act the role of a queen, faking it as best she could. But it would not be easy, especially as she was dirty and sore and frozen, and in her eyes dressed like a peasant – although one clothed in finer materials.

They rode through the gates to the city – to Lothiriel's eyes it seemed more like a humble village than anything – and up through the thatched-roof houses to the top of the hill, where rested the hall of Meduseld. As they passed, villagers stopped what they were doing and came out of their houses to see her. She plastered a smile on her face and greeted them shyly. Some merely stared, others tried not to, some looked curious and excited, others appeared guarded. Lothiriel swallowed and tried to look at ease.

When they were nearing Meduseld, the great doors opened, and Éomer came out and down the stone steps to meet them, followed by the tall, pale woman whom Lothiriel knew only by sight to be his sister Éowyn, and a man Lothiriel had never seen before and for the moment paid little mind to. Her gaze was fixed hopelessly on her betrothed, although she dearly wanted to look away.

"I welcome you, Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth and your brothers to my kingdom," Éomer said formally, his voice carrying. "May you come to feel at home in this land."

Beside her, her two brothers dismounted and bowed slightly as a formality to the King before greeting him more warmly, with a hug and a clap on the back. Barely noticing, Lothiriel somehow managed to pry herself out of the saddle and onto the ground, sacrificing grace for dignity – although perhaps the two were one and the same, in which case she was hopelessly lost – and stepped forward to meet him. Her brothers parted to let her through.

"My lord King," she managed. "Well met. On behalf of my brothers and I, I thank you for your hospitality." Shy all of a sudden, she swept a curtsy and nearly stumbled as her knees gave out all together. Strong hands steadied her around the waist and raised her up.

"Easy there," Éomer's husky baritone cut through the ringing inn her ears. She looked up, and up, her gaze finally meeting his own, which flickered with something unreadable. Amusement? Concern?

"Thank you," she murmured, flustered.

"Can you stand?" he asked, gripping her hands. She nodded after a moment and let go.

"I think so." They stood there awkwardly for the barest hint of a moment, neither knowing where to direct their gaze. "My lord."

"May I present my sister, Lady Éowyn, and Éothain, my steward?" Éomer said, gesturing to them.

Lothiriel nodded to each. "I am honored to make your acquaintance," she said sincerely. She looked at her brothers, then at Éomer, who looked suddenly at a loss. No one spoke for a moment, and Lothiriel felt herself grow weak. She wanted, badly, to sit down, to lie down and never get up again. And more so, she was embarrassed at her clumsiness and wanted to hide.

"You must be exhausted," Éowyn said, picking up on their hesitation and stepping forward. "Come inside, all of you, before my brother King forgets himself and we stand out in the cold indefinitely." She shot Éomer a deathly look and took Lothiriel's arm, bringing her along with her up the stairs into the Great Hall. Behind them, Lothiriel's brothers fell in step with Éomer. The other man – Éothain – went the opposite way, leading the small company of men who had served as Lothiriel's guards to what must have been the barracks. Hostlers had already come and gone with their horses.

Oh, blessed warmth. Finally inside, Lothiriel felt her body start to shake with the sensation of numb, cold limbs suddenly rushing full of blood, and she shut her eyes, nearly crumpling onto Éowyn. The other young woman – a few years older, perhaps, but not by much – supported her, and vaguely Lothiriel marveled at her strength. So this was the woman her cousin Faramir had fallen in love with and chosen for his bride. Well, she was certainly a sight to behold.

Éomer caught her other arm. "Lothiriel." She raised her eyes to meet his again.

"What?"

"Forgive me for – "

"There is nothing to forgive," she said, and shrugged, swaying. "An awkward meeting, is all."

"I – "

Éowyn interrupted him, jabbing him in the chest. "Can you not do something more productive, like go – heavens, go run the country? Your future wife is exhausted and you are only hindering her." She looked at Lothiriel, who was blushing. "Come. Let us get you to the rooms that have prepared for you."

Lothiriel could only follow gratefully, painfully aware of Éomer's gaze at her back. Too tired to really pay close attention to her surroundings, she had a passing impression of tall, elaborately carved columns and of furnishings of red and green and gold, contrasted with the dark grey stone of the walls and flooring.

"I apologize for my brother. I love him, but he is hopeless at times," Éowyn said as they rounded a corner. "Not that I can say much for myself in the way of grace and manners, but at least I know enough not to leave weary travelers out in the cold." She laughed a little self-consciously, and Lothiriel realized that she, the woman who had bravely rode into battle and slain the Witch King, who had performed feats most women – and men – could only dream of, seemed nervous. For what reason, Lothiriel did not really know.

"Éomer is never quite what I expect," Lothiriel replied, "But I think he was about to bring us inside."

"Perhaps," Éowyn replied. "Perhaps. I would not have counted on it," she said dryly, but the affection in her voice was evident. Lothiriel felt rather odd having this conversation, discussing Éomer so freely – almost as if he was her friend – and with this woman, whom she had just met.

Éowyn looked her over. "Forgive me for saying so, but you do not look well, my lady Lothiriel, at all." Her tone was frank, level, but warm.

Lothiriel grimaced. "It cannot get worse, I suppose," she muttered, her head still spinning. "Everyone saw."

"Who?"

"The entire village!"

Éowyn laughed. "I think they will understand," she reassured her. "It is an incredibly long journey and the weather is ghastly to be out in for long. Besides, I think they are too in awe of you, a strange dark-haired, refined princess of Gondor to have even noticed you were not entirely at your ease."

Lothiriel severely doubted this, but she appreciated Éowyn's thoughtfulness, and told her so. She had no need to say anymore, for they had arrived at a door at the end of a corridor, which Éowyn pushed open.

"Here we are," she said. "Forgive our humble hospitality, for these rooms are rather small, but because of that, they tend to be far warmer than the larger guest chambers, and they are well-furnished and I hope you will be quite comfortable here for the time being." She said all this very fast, as if she was afraid Lothiriel would be displeased.

Lothiriel shook her head reassuringly, lifting her tired legs and forcing them to carry her through the door. "I like small rooms." She looked around. The room they were standing in was furnished in a pale green, contrasting well with the deep mahogany of the carved wood bed that took up much of the focal point of the room, surrounded by a heavy curtain of the same green, which hung open to reveal layers upon layers of sheets blankets, and golden bedfurs. Another fur served as a rug, protection from the cold grey stone. Across from the bed, a fireplace, at which a maid was crouched, working to light a fire there. Nearby, another door, slightly open, led into what she could tell must have been a dressing room and bath. Lothiriel looked around for a chair, and seeing that there was none, collapsed on the edge of bed with a grateful sigh.

Turning around and seeing her, the maid popped up, bobbing a curtsy. "Your highness."

"This is Isemay," Éowyn informed Lothiriel. "She has been assigned to you. If there is any problem with these arrangements, you can let me know."

Lothiriel looked the girl over. She got the impression of a girl about fifteen – still a little ungainly – cheerful, eager to please. Her unruly, flaxen hair was caught up haphazardly behind her head, framing a spritely heart-shaped face and blue eyes.

"At your service, milady." She said, curtseying again.

Lothiriel nodded. "Thank you, Isemay." Turning to Éowyn, she said, "I am sure she will do fine."

Éowyn nodded, clapping her hands together. "Good." She glanced at Isemay. "I will leave you to rest. Do not let Isemay chatter your ears off, or you will get no peace." She grinned. "And do not look at me like that, you," she warned the younger girl who had stepped forward, her mouth open in sheepish indignation as if to protest.

"But Lady Éowyn – "

"Hush, silly. Lothiriel, rest as long as you like." Éowyn made her way to the door. Just before she exited, she popped her head back in. "Oh, and Lothiriel?"

"Hmm?" Lothiriel yawned. She could barely keep her eyes open.

"I am so glad – to have finally met you." The woman smiled warmly before she disappeared through the doorway, pulling it shut behind her, and as Lothiriel climbed into bed, clothes and all, she felt her heart stir a little in warmth and optimism of the kind she had thought forever lost. Then she slipped happily into warm oblivion.

***

[A/N: Long wait, I know, for a short chapter, but life has been taking over, and writing has felt tedious. Thank you as always to all who read and review!– GB

_Faerveren: Joyous Spirit_

Old English Names: http://www./names/talan/reaney/

Middle –Earth Names: . ]


	6. A Missing Lullaby

Chapter 6: A Missing Lullaby

Lothiriel awoke in the evening, feeling much better, but a little groggy and confused. Uncertain of the time, she dragged herself out of bed and went to light a lamp in the darkness of the room, otherwise lit only by the dying fire. She had just returned to sit on her bed when there was a soft knock on the door, after which the door opened. Isemay, the maid she recognized from before, peeked in.

"Why, you're awake!" the girl said, entering with a curtsy. "I trust you slept well, my lady?"

"Oh yes, quite well," Lothiriel murmured. "How long has it been?"

"Oh, several hours, I should say," Isemay responded, amusment evident in her face. "You missed supper, but everyone understood. Are you hungry?"

Lothiriel thought about this and realized that she was. "Yes, quite."

"Good," the girl said, laughing a little self-consciously. "Because I already sent for a tray."

"Thank you." Lothiriel rubbed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, foggy from sleep. "What I really need is a bath," she said with a groan, feeling the grime from traveling evident on her skin.

Isemay started. "Oh, of course. Let me draw you one." As she disappeared hurriedly, through the adjoining door, she said over her shoulder, rather shyly. "I'm sorry. I should have thought of that, milady."

Lothiriel shook her head. "Oh no, not at all." Would everyone she met here in Rohan be so nervous around her?

Shortly after, Lothiriel settled into the hot water of the bath with a grateful sigh as the tightness and soreness started to ebb away from her muscles, Isemay went to work unpacking Lothiriel's things.

"Why, this is absolutely lovely!" Lothiriel heard Isemay gasp just moments later. Craning her neck to see through the door into the main chamber, Lothiriel managed to catch a glimpse of the girl holding up one of her gowns. It was, in fact, one of Lothiriel's favorites, a silk dress the color of seafoam.

She smiled rather sheepishly. It was really a summer-weight material, and probably more suited to the warm sea climate and airy corridors of Dol Amroth than to Rohan, winter or summer. It had been, most likely, quite foolish for her to bring it with her.

"I have never seen fabric like this," Isemay said, tracing the embroidery at the bodice with cautious fingers. "So airy and light – almost as if it is not even there."

Lothiriel marveled at this. "You mean, you have never seen silk?" she blurted out before thinking.

"Never – even the finest fabrics here are still made from wool or cotton. And of course I've rarely even touched those." Isemay sighed a bit wistfully and, laying out the gown on the bed, lifted out another.

Lothiriel turned back to her bathing a little awkwardly, uncomfortable at her own ignorance and, she thought, extravagance. "Well, anyway, that gown – in fact, a good number of them – will likely not get much use here. The fabric is too light for this climate."

Isemay paused. "Well, in the summer it does get quite hot. You never know, perhaps for the midsummer celebrations or a banquet – even in spring or early, you might wear them."

Lothiriel considered this, pleased to be turning her scattered thoughts to something simple and concrete – the practicality of her clothing. "Perhaps." She furrowed her brow, saying, "In truth, I do not know how many of my dresses will be suitable for the winter here. I of course brought my winter clothes, but the weather in Dol Amroth is so much milder than in Rohan. And wetter, too, while here it seems it is just cold."

"You will have to talk to my sister, Brithwyn," Isemay replied, returning to Lothiriel's side to help her wash her hair, which to Lothiriel's chagrin, was almost matted. "She is in charge of all things related to sewing and spinning around here in Meduseld - and she is quite a good seamstress. I am sure she can take care of making sure you are attired like a queen, but warmly too!" the girl exclaimed with a sudden laugh.

Lothiriel nodded, leaning her head back so that Isemay could rinse her hair with a bucket of hot water. "I will speak to her in the morning, then." She paused. "Have you and your sister always worked in Meduseld then?"

Isemay shook her head and did not respond for a moment as she set to work untangling Lothiriel's dark hair with a wooden comb. Finally, she said, "When my mother died – my father died when I was just a babe – I went to live with my sister and her husband. But he was soon killed on the Pelennor, and the king – Hunfred was a rider in his company - offered us both positions in his hall out of," she paused. "I guess one would call it charity, or pity. Or maybe loyalty – I know that Hunfred was well-respected in the king's eyes." She set down the comb. "I don't know. All I know is that without his aid, my sister and I would probably be starving and struggling to get by on our own – like so many are this winter."

Lothiriel bowed her head, reminded of how common Isemay and Brithwyn's story was. So many men, fathers and husbands and brothers and sons, had died, leaving so many women and children alone in the world – on top of the loss of farmland and livestock and homes that had come with the war. She sighed and twisted to face the girl who knelt beside her. "I do promise that I will do everything in my power to help the people of Rohan recover from this war. And I am so sorry – for your loss, for your sister's loss. I would very much like to meet her."

Isemay met Lothiriel's gaze and gave her a shaky smile. "You will, of course. She is close to your age and I am sure that you will like her." The younger girl stood and, averting her eyes politely, held out a thick towel for Lothiriel to wrap herself in. "Although she has changed so much since Hunfred's death."

---

Later, very much awake although the rest of Edoras and particularly the halls of Meduseld seemed very much asleep – even Amrothos and Erchirion, who were known for staying up all hours of the night, had bid her goodnight and retired – Lothiriel wandered through the quiet corridors of what was to be her new home, corridors dimly lit by sturdy torches that cast flickering patterns on the stone walls.

Two guards, their eyes curious, bowed her through the big, heavy doors that led to the outside of the Golden Hall. With a shiver, she stepped into the chilly night – thanking the Valar for her fur-lined cloak – to stand under a vast expanse of stars.

Lothiriel took a breath. The land, cloaked in darkness but with the snow-capped peaks in the distance illuminated by moonlight, could be called beautiful, in its way, she thought, but it was too quiet. Back home, she would hear the breaking of the waves upon the rocks, the earth breathing a rhythm that had been to her more a lullaby than any her mother had ever sung to her as a child. Here, there was no such sound.

---

TBC

[Isemay: pronounced 'y (ee)-se-may' as far as I can tell

Brithwyn: pronounced 'bright-wyn'

Hunfred: probably as it is spelled, and means "giant peace"]

[A/N: Wow, short chapter, and no update since February. I am so sorry, my senior year of highschool was a long, slow upward climb, but now that school is out I plan to keep a somewhat steady stream of updates for the rest of the summer. Hopefully, by the fall I will be almost done – seems that college will keep me too busy to write much.

Thanks to all who have reviewed or subscribed so far, but most of all for your patience, for not giving up on me! It really means a lot! Sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going with this, but you guys inspire me to keep working through it.

Note: I realize now after some thought that barely four months of engagement is a short time to have a royal wedding, and it probably seems strange that Éowyn and Faramir aren't getting married until later in the spring or early summer when they've been engaged longer, but I figure that it can be justified in that Rohan needs Gondor's help and the sooner Éomer and Lothiriel are married, the better.

No Éomer this time, but next chapter I promise there will be more of our favorite Horse Lord, the plot will get moving. Peace, all y'all .~GB]


	7. Masks

Chapter 7: Masks

Having finally fallen asleep in the hours just before dawn, Lothiriel woke the morning after her arrival in Edoras to the faint sounds of a household getting ready for the day. She could sense a general energy in the sounds of distant footsteps, an energy that spoke of servants hustling and bustling throughout their morning duties, of guards switching stations, and of its residents waking, facing the day ahead through bleary eyes.

It struck Lothiriel that the atmosphere was almost familiar to her – that it was not too different from the way Dol Amroth would feel on such a morning like any other, although the surroundings were different and the faint voices she could hear chattered away in a tongue that was unfamiliar, almost abrasive to her uncultured ears. Would she manage to learn this new language?

She was greeted by Isemay's cheerful grin as the younger girl tended to a cheerful blaze in the fireplace, and after a quick bath Lothiriel felt almost like herself again. Thankful for her thick, sturdy boots to ward off the chill of the stone floors, she set out to find her brothers, heading first towards the main hall.

"Good morning," she said, approaching Amrothos and Erchirion where they were sitting at one of the long tables that were situated in rows along the sides of the large room.

"Sister!" exclaimed Amrothos, looking up from a heavily laden plate of food. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better than yesterday," she replied as she slid into a spot on the bench next to him, spotting the concern that was hidden behind her brother's jovial smile. "Thank you."

"You look it," he said frankly. "Doesn't she?" This last remark was directed at Erchirion, who looked almost asleep over his own plate of breakfast.

Her second eldest brother started. "What? Oh. Yes, she does. Good morning, Lothiriel." He rubbed his forehead and raked his fingers through his hair, mumbling, "It's ungodly early."

"You had better forgive Erchirion," Amrothos said, amused. "He was up late talking to one of the serving girls last night. Or, perhaps it would be more prudent to say that they were not talking…"

"On your first night in Edoras?" Lothiriel asked, incredulous but not really surprised. Elphir, the eldest brother in her family, had settled down rather early in his life to raise a family and accept a diplomatic position that left him, for the most part, behind a desk covered with papers. Lothiriel's two other brothers, on the other hand, were admittedly infamous for their exploits. To her knowledge, Amrothos, though fond of the company of women, had yet to find a woman who caused him significant heartache, while Erchirion, for his part, was by far more romantic in nature than Amrothos. He was prone to deep attachment and yet these attachments were of a kind that burned high temperatures and turned to ashes quickly. Consequently, Erchirion moved almost constantly from heartache to heartache, causing as many along the way.

Erchirion shook his head. "Amrothos is exaggerating, the girl and I were in fact talking. Although she seemed to speak barely any common tongue at all, I think our meaning was clear. Perhaps we would have done more had she not fled after I kissed her."

Lothiriel shook her head, amused and pained at the same time. "Be careful, Erchirion, you are only in Edoras until after the wedding. You might finally get that heart of yours ensnared for good, and then where would you be?" She met his eyes firmly. "And I will not have you – or you, Amrothos – crushing the heart of every young maiden, serving girl or otherwise, in Edoras. They are, after all, to be my subjects, and thus are my responsibility to protect."

"So glad to see you are yourself again, Lothiriel," Erchirion grumbled, and Amrothos chuckled.

"Hear, hear."

----

Éomer was in a dark mood this morning. He had not slept well, and when he had finally given up on trying to find rest and rose in the early hours of the morning, he had been informed that the efforts to bring resources to the refugees who were sheltered at Aldburg were delayed because of a snowstorm that was moving in – his people were starving, and on top of that Lothiriel was here.

Now he was pacing the corridors aimlessly, waiting for time to pass before the meeting he had called that morning was scheduled to begin – but time passed slowly. He longed to climb on the back of his horse and just ride, far from the constraints of Meduseld, and further from the duties and worries of a King, and from the inconvenience that was a future wife to somehow make feel at home under his roof.

Speaking of future wives… Éomer stopped his silent tirade in its track, coming to a halt at the sight of that very woman rounding the corner in front of him. Her eyes were darting about, taking in her surroundings with an intensity that struck him as rather odd – had she seen him? If so, was she pretending that she had not? He suspected so by the faint blush appearing on her cheeks, and quite frankly he did not blame her. He almost wished he could do the same, but common courtesy and their situation dictated that he greet her – although he frankly wished he could do away with all of it.

"Good day, my lady," he said as she was almost past him. She froze, her blush deepening, and after a beat, raised wide grey-green eyes to his.

"Oh! Good day, Éomer King." She swept a curtsy, and if a more refined one had ever graced the Golden Hall, at least during his lifetime, Éomer would be damned. However, as she rose, he could tell that the length of it had largely served to allow her time to compose herself.

Strangely amused now, Éomer inclined his head in a courteous response. Placing his hands behind his back, he said, "I trust you slept well? I hope the rooms are to your liking."

She beamed a smile up at him that did not quite reach her eyes, a faint crease remaining in her brow. "Yes, and yes." They stood in silence for a moment. Always this silence. "And yourself? How did you sleep?" Lothiriel asked a bit hurriedly.

"What? Oh. Fine. Thank you," Éomer replied. He scowled inwardly. There were so many things to be said, things that he should say, things that needed to be discussed, but he could not find the words to phrase them – and here he was lying to this young woman about his sleep, which had been fitful and fragmented. "Will you not walk with me a moment?" he offered, at a loss for an excuse to take his leave. After a moment, she nodded, and they set off at a meandering pace, a good few feet in distance between them.

"Well," Lothiriel said, that forced smile still pasted on her face. Her hands were buried in her skirts, probably to hide the same faint trembling he had noticed that first day in Dol Amroth, standing by the window, after she had just learned of their intended betrothal.

She was good at containing her emotions when she wished, adept at faking composure, Éomer thought, even if his observant eyes saw through it. He guessed that the smile was for the benefit of anyone they might pass – well, damn them.

He let out a breath. "Lothiriel, we are perfectly alone in this hallway at the moment, and you may remove that… that expression from your face, if you wish. If it is for my benefit, please know that I can see right through. We both know –" He paused. What? "That it is all a show," he finished.

She stared at him, taken aback, the smile fading from her face. She looked as if she was about to snap at him, or slap him for his rudeness. But then she laughed softly, a surprising sound. "I think that, in at least one way, you and I are alike, Éomer King. We both grow tired of the constraints that propriety dictates, although we have been bound to them. However, I think you are bold to condemn it as you do. You may find that, indeed, propriety has its place and purpose, and will like as not be to your advantage."

It was his turn to stare at her. "Perhaps you are right," he concurred, thinking that indeed, she was very much right. "I am afraid I have not had so much time to adjust to life as a diplomat and find it – all of it - trying."

"Why is that, if I may ask?" Lothiriel interjected. "That you find propriety so difficult?"

Éomer shrugged, thinking that it should be obvious. "Until I became King, I spent so much of my life on the back of a horse and bedding down underneath the stars that I rarely had to… well, horses do not care what face you show to them, as long as you are kind and coaxing to them. Indeed, they are too good at reading our emotions and could see – or sense – through any mask."

Lothiriel bowed her head. "Perhaps you have learned something from these horses, given that you have so easily seen through the masks that I have worn."

He chuckled, then sobered when he realized that she did not share his sentiment. "Only a practiced eye could tell, if that reassures you."

She shrugged and was a long time in answering. "It does." She did not meet his eyes again as they walked along in silence.

"Well," Éomer said finally. "I must beg leave of you, for I have a meeting with my council that I must attend."

"Or suffer through?" she asked, the corners of her mouth deepening in what he realized was wry amusement, and he sighed, annoyed.

"It is not an inconvenience – it is necessary," he began. "There are refugees, you know."

At the tone of his voice, which was sharper than he meant it, Lothiriel colored and buried her hands in her skirt. "I'm sorry – I did not mean to imply that –"

"I know," he said quickly. "I did not exactly give you the best impression of myself before."

She bit her lip and nodded. "I just wanted to, oh, I don't know." She glanced up at him with an apologetic look. "Say something to show I understood?"

Éomer nodded. "It is all right, Lothiriel." He paused, considering whether he should ask her to accompany him. Finally making a decision, he cleared his throat. "You are to be Queen of Rohan and it is my hope that you will be as instrumental in ruling as I. I suppose the sooner you are acquainted with – everything – the better. Would you like to attend this meeting with me?"

She looked up at him in what he took to be surprise. "Really?"

"If you are interested, I mean – I understand though if you are not settled in yet, and if it is too much – "

"Éomer."

He stopped. "What?"

"I would like nothing more," she said, "Thank you." She was smiling a true smile now, and Éomer started inwardly, thinking that he had seldom in the course of their acquaintance seen her looking anywhere close to this happy, or perhaps this relieved.

----

As the meeting in the Great Hall began, Lothiriel had never been more grateful to have something to turn her thoughts towards that wasn't directly related to her wedding or her future husband, although sitting at the head of the table at Éomer's side meant that his close proximity was hard to ignore. But she was soon caught up in the affairs of Rohan and the problems presented. She was struck by the pressing problems of Rohan's situation and felt a little silly – Gondor had suffered but far less so than Rohan, it seemed. So much had been lost during the years of war, with fields burned and villages destroyed, people displaced from their homes. There simply wasn't a place to house them all comfortably and feed them. The summer had been spent rebuilding and sowing what crops could still be sewn, and the harvest had been decent, but there were simply too many refugees. And now, with the weather problems, there were further complications.

She sat quietly for most of the meeting, listening and trying to gather enough information to contribute, but she felt hopelessly lost. To further her discomfort, she was intimidated by the curious and almost challenging looks of several of the men in the room. Only Éowyn, who was to her right, and the man she had met the day before – Éothain, she remembered – seemed to accept her being there. But soon enough, the meeting was over, and the men were bowing to her and offering their welcome. Two even came to clasp her hand, and she could not help but laugh, pleasantly surprised. Éothain winked, and she decided right then and there that she liked the man and his easy, open manner.

But when she turned to address him, Éomer at first seemed nowhere to be found. Confused, she looked around and finally spotted him near one of the great columns where he was speaking with Éowyn. His posture was as commanding as ever, but she detected a furrow on his brow that spoke of great worry and frustration. After a moment's hesitation she squared her shoulders and made her way towards them.

"The weather will clear in a few days, and until then, they will be fine," she overheard Éowyn say reassuringly as she approached.

"How can you be so certain?" Éomer retorted.

Éowyn sighed. "Brother, I am worried too, but there is only so much we can do at the moment. You must try to relax." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lothiriel, and touched her brother on the arm, indicating that he turn to look. Éomer looked startled as the two siblings turned to greet her.

Éowyn smiled at her. "My brother pretends to be so grave and dispassionate, but I am afraid it is all pretense. In truth, he is as sensi – "

Éomer cleared his throat, looking pained. "Éowyn."

"Sensitive as a – "

"What did you think of your first political experience in Rohan, Lothiriel?" Éomer said, cutting off his sister, who gave up and merely looked amused.

Lothiriel looked from one to the other, not knowing how to react to this sibling interaction – although it reminded her strongly of her own. Finally, she turned her attention to Éomer. "I thought it fascinating," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "Did you?"

"I did." She paused. "The challenging glances from some of your men were, I admit, rather disconcerting."

Éowyn laughed lightly. "I know those looks well," she said. "It took years for me to silence them." She paused. "And a few persist, actually."

"They do?" Lothiriel gulped.

"Oh, but hardly. And I am sure you will fare better than I," her future sister-in-law said quickly. "My unrestrainable temper in my early years did not help me much in gaining respect. That is, not until years later, it drove me to stab a Nazgul in the face, a measure I hope you will never have to resort to."

Lothiriel laughed at this speech, a little shocked at her future sister-in-law's frankness. Éowyn smiled at her timidly, then looked at her brother. Lothiriel's eyes followed until they met Éomer's head-on. She caught her breath suddenly. He was looking at her with the most curious expression on his face, and Lothiriel felt almost trapped in his gaze. Her cheeks grew hot.

Éowyn must have detected something, for she cleared her throat and looked between them. "Well. It is time I took my leave of you two, I fear. Éomer, I will see you later. Excuse me, my lady."

"Goodbye." Lothiriel watched the other woman depart, wishing she would stay. She looked up at Éomer. "What?"

"Nothing." He shook his head, still looking at her. "I was just thinking."

Exasperated, Lothiriel wanted nothing more than to be out of his presence. "Fine," she said. "If you insist that the expression on your face was just one of chance, then so be it. I must go. There are things I must attend to." She curtsied and started to walk away, but he caught her arm and she had no choice but to look back at him.

"You are angry?"

She shook her head. "There is no reason for me to be angry. I am just – " There it was again on his face. She flushed. "You're looking at me that way again."

A pause. Then, "It is just that until today, I cannot recall ever seeing your face so – so alive."

Lothiriel stared at him. "We spoke of my wearing a mask earlier, and now my face is alive?"

"I – forgive me. I am not making much sense."

"I should say not." She sighed. "My lord, do you plan to explain yourself or are we to stand here looking at each other all afternoon?"

He shook his head. "There is nothing that I can say to explain myself, except that I cannot understand this apparent change in you, as far as I can detect that there has, in fact, been one." He smiled although it appeared to her a bit forced, "Either there has been one, or I am truly deluded."

Lothiriel was at a loss. "Excuse me." She curtsied and turned on her heel to depart him immediately.

----

Later that afternoon, Lothiriel found Éowyn and entreated her to help her on her quest to find Isemay's sister Brithwyn. The other woman was happy to take her to the rooms where the seamstress and weaver worked.

Once inside, Lothiriel recognized in the woman Isemay's heart shaped face and wide-set eyes, although this woman's eyes were brown instead of blue and her gaze was wistful, her countenance drawn with an air of incredible sadness. Lothiriel cleared her throat, feeling awkward all of a sudden. "Excuse me, are you Brithwyn?" she asked. "I was told I might find you here."

The other young woman inclined her head and gave a small smile. "At your service. Is there something I might do for you, my lady?" Her voice was soft but clear, and she met Lothiriel's gaze respectfully but with a levelness that the princess found pleasing.

Lothiriel nodded and smiled in return as she took Brithwyn's hands in her own, much to the other woman's evident surprise. "Oh, yes."

----

TBC

[A/N: I am so sorry for the incredible wait! I haven't forgotten this, I just don't have time to write anymore and writer's block is always an issue whenever I try. This chapter has, for reasons unexplainable, been difficult to crank out. But here it is. I was so eager to post, I probably haven't edited it to the best of my ability, so I hope you'll forgive me. Also, it's been so long that I fear my characters have run away with me but maybe not. I guess we'll see where things go!

Thanks for your patience! Reviews are always welcome! xox GB ]


	8. Mothers

Chapter 8: Mothers 

"I think this gown could be remade for you," Éowyn remarked thoughtfully to Lothiriel as the maid Isemay held up a finely spun wool gown of emerald green for the women to look at. "My figure is fuller now than it was when I wore this, but it was one of my favorites. It is still in good condition." She took the gown from Isemay and handed it to Brithwyn. "Here, Brithwyn, take a look."

The seamstress ran her hands appreciatively over the fabric. A week into Lothiriel's new life at Edoras, the four young women were in Éowyn's room, searching through a trunk of the shieldmaiden's old belongings so that they might solve Lothiriel's winter wardrobe problem.

"Yes, I think so," Brithwyn said finally, holding the gown up to size it against Lothiriel. "It's quite lovely, don't you agree?"

Lothiriel expressed her accord. Brithwyn nodded in businesslike affirmation and set the gown aside, adding into a growing pile of clothes to be made over. Lothiriel studied herself in the mirror, perplexed. She was thinner now than she had ever been, even during the worst months of the war. And she was not sure she would last the winter. It was terribly cold. Snow had finally begun to fall, veiling the plains and hillocks of Rohan in a shroud of pure white. Everything outside was eerily quiet. She sighed.

"No matter how long you stare at yourself in the mirror, you will still be beautiful," teased Isemay, her wide-set blue eyes merry.

"Coming from a – how do you say it? A bonnie lass herself," Lothiriel replied, wanting to deflect the attention. She knew her features held a certain quality of beauty about them, although her face was far from that of the perfect, ethereal symmetry of the elven queen Arwen Undomìel, or even from the pure sort of loveliness she remembered her mother to have possessed.

Isemay's face, mischevious by nature, broke into a shy smile. "Really?"

"Yes." Lothiriel studied the younger girl, so beautiful in the strange, coltish way that only adolescent girls could be. She remembered strongly how uncertain and awkward she had felt at that stage in her life – more than a little lost. Despite the best attempts of her father and older brothers to fill the void her mother's death had left, she had longed for some motherly guidance – only a woman can help a young girl with certain feelings and experiences. It had not been that long ago, had it? In fact, Lothiriel was not sure that she had quite left those feelings behind.

She noticed Brithwyn looking at her younger sister with a strange expression on her almost identical face. Was she perhaps thinking the same thing? Lothiriel moved aside as Brithwyn, took Isemay's arm and pulled her gently in front of the mirror, wrapping her arms around her sister from behind and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

"Lady Lothiriel is right," Brithwyn said to Isemay, her voice firm but gentle, looking at their reflection. "Please do not ever forget it."

Lothiriel, watching, met the woman's eyes in the mirror and smiled warmly, touched deeply at the sight of them. It was plain to see how deeply Brithwyn cared for her sister and wondered if she had done most of Isemay's raising from the time they were children. With her husband and both parents dead, was Isemay the only person she had left?

Éowyn had turned abruptly away from the scene and was digging a little forcefully through the remaining items in the trunk. Now she stopped suddenly, staring at a grey-blue dress in her hands. She looked distressed and Lothiriel noticed her hands start to shake.

"Éowyn, are you all right?" she asked, confused.

"What is it?" asked Brithwyn, letting go of Isemay and turning to Éowyn.

The other woman shook her head as if to clear it and looked up at the three of them. "Nothing." She bit her lip and shrugged, looking down at the dress, which she had crumpled in her hands. For a moment, she looked haunted.

"Éowyn, tell me, what is it?" Lothiriel knelt beside her, genuinely concerned.

"I wore this the day that Wormtongue first –" she broke off and shook her head.

Lothiriel looked up in questioning at Brithwyn, whose face had darkened. "Theoden's poisonous advisor, in service to Saruman," the seamstress clarified softly, her tone clipped in distaste.

"He was a plague on us all," Éowyn said bitterly. "I was but fifteen when he first tried to kiss me. He told me that he liked my dress, that the color brought out the innocence of my skin." She scoffed and then said, "I ran back to my room and tore this dress off and never wore it again."

Lothiriel, stunned, laid a hand on the woman's arm. "He is gone now," she whispered. "You are free of him."

"Well, I still have nightmares," Éowyn said sharply, then smiled quickly, biting back her words. "I'm sorry. You are right."

She stood quickly and wadded the gown up in her hands. "I should burn this dress," she said matter-of-factly, and laughed, but it was a hollow sound. She looked at the other women, and looked pained. "Excuse me, I just remembered that I needed to speak with one of the stable hands about my horse. But please, stay here as long as you wish."

She was gone without another word. Lothiriel felt frozen in shock. Brithwyn and Isemay looked back at her, their faces mirroring hers. Brithwyn was holding Isemay in front of her protectively, hands on her shoulders.

"Will she be all right?" Isemay asked finally.

Brithwyn smoothed back her sister's hair. "She will be fine," she said solemnly. "Sometimes objects are linked to …certain memories." Isemay nodded, her face displaying immediate comprehension.

The three of them lingered several moments in awkward silence. Brithwyn began to gather up the clothing they had chosen, and Isemay soon followed suit, putting the remaining belongings of Éowyn's back into the trunk.

Lothiriel wondered if she should go after the shieldmaiden. After a moment, seeing Éowyn's cloak hanging on a hook on the wall, she decided that she would try to find her. While she was certain that the stable story had been a ruse, it _was_ freezing outside. And it was beginning to get dark – so early in the evening here!

Grabbing the cloak, she looked from Isemay to Brithwyn. "She forgot this. I will bring it to her."

Her path took her through the great hall, in which burned along the center a series of raised fire pits to ward of the chill. The hall first appeared empty but for two silent guards at the great doors – her footsteps echoed – but as she stopped briefly at one of the fires to warm her hands, she realized that a man was sitting at one of the long tables, watching her. Trying to make him out in the dim light, she realized with a start that it was Éomer. She had barely seen or spoken to him since that first full day in Edoras.

"Hello," she said simply.

He nodded. "Hello." Nothing more.

"I – errm," she bit her cheek and started over. "Did Éowyn come through here?"

"Yes." He stood and came nearer and held out a bundle of fabric with a helpless shrug. Lothiriel looked at it.

"Is that – "

He nodded. "A dress? Yes. She was about to throw it on the fire when I reminded her that wool does not burn readily. She cursed me and then told me to get rid of it somehow, and fled. Do you know wh –"

"I will explain later. Which way did she go?" Lothiriel asked him.

"Out the main doors. Is that her cloak?"

"Yes," Lothiriel said. She was glad for the veil of firelight on her flushed cheeks, for he was looking at her curiously, again.

"Lothiriel, a warning – understand that I would have followed her but I know my sister. She often needs some time to herself and will only snap at one who comes too near while she is distressed."

Lothiriel shrugged, prepared to take that risk.

"Perhaps a woman's touch might be gentler," she said with a touch of sauciness that surprised even herself. "Besides, if she is outside in this ghastly temperature without a warm covering, then she is foolish indeed."

He laughed softly, then sobered.

"You do not have a cloak of your own with you," he pointed out.

She looked down. He was right. "Oh."

Éomer returned to where he had been sitting and picked up his own.

"Take mine," he said, walking back and putting the cloak on her. He did this facing her so that for a moment as he whipped the yards of fabric around her to cover her shoulders, she was caught between his arms. He was very near. Lothiriel sucked in her breath and looked up at him, overwhelmed by his presence and surprised at the gesture. He looked strangely tender as he secured the heavy cloak pin at the base of her neck. Then he stepped back.

"Thank you," she whispered, for some reason unable to look at him directly. "I am grateful."

He nodded in acceptance of her thanks. "May you have better luck with Éowyn than I would have," he said quietly with the hint of a smile flashing in the firelight. "I think perhaps you will. And don't freeze. "

Lothiriel returned his slight smile and left him, her thoughts returning to Éowyn as quickly as they had strayed.

The doors to Meduseld held open for her by the guards, who watched her silently as she passed through them. As she had hoped, Éowyn was standing there, her arms folded tightly across her chest, staring out across the plains of Rohan and into the mountains. The stars were coming out.

At the sound of the doors creaking, Éowyn looked to see who had come out. At the sight of Lothiriel, she ducked her head, embarrassed.

"Are you not cold?" Lothiriel asked lightly.

Éowyn looked down at herself. "Yes, but I was hardly aware of it," she said, "That is until now."

"Will you not come inside?" Lothiriel laid a hand on the woman's arm. "Or at least put this on," she added, offering her the cloak.

Éowyn looked at it and, after a moment, took it and wrapped herself in it. "Thank you."

Wanting to say so much but unsure of how to approach this woman, Lothiriel asked, "May I stay out here with you a while?"

She watched Éowyn consider this prospect and slowly nod in affirmation.

"You know," Lothiriel began, coming to stand beside Éowyn "I was thinking while we were all together this evening that although we all come from very different lives, all of us – you, and Brithwyn, and Isemay, and I – all of us have something in common."

Éowyn tilted her head, listening. "Do we?"

"Yes. We all have lost many loved ones. Parents. And mothers in particular," Lothiriel said simply. "Well, I know that Brithwyn's mother was around for her longer, but from what I have gathered from what she would tell me, her mother faded in spirit long before her body."

"I believe that is indeed true," Éowyn replied.

Lothiriel continued, "I too lost my mother not long before I went through adolescence, and I was reminded by Isemay this evening of what it was like to try to grow into a young woman without a mother to help me along." She smiled softly, the feeling still fresh in her heart. "I was completely lost."

"I too was reminded of it," Éowyn admitted frankly. "Isemay is lucky to have her sister. I admire Brithwyn's strength in spite of everything."

Lothiriel reached out and squeezed Éowyn's hand. The other woman, after a moment, returned the pressure and smiled shakily. "Éowyn, the truth is, I came out here to say that I admire your own strength. I cannot imagine going through what you have – Wormtongue's advances in particular – virtually alone, without a mother to turn to. Yet you have endured."

"Thank you," Éowyn said after a moment. "I am grateful for your words, Lothiriel. Your regard means more than you can know."

Lothiriel smiled at her.

"Did you know," Éowyn said suddenly. "I have never really had a female friend my age."

"Truly?" Lothiriel asked, and the other woman nodded wryly.

"There was never really anyone – no relative or any female close to my station as I was growing up. There was Breya - " she stopped short and looked away awkwardly.

"I know about Breya," Lothiriel said quickly, although the name startled her. It stung slightly, reminding her of the truth of her own situation.

"You do?" Éowyn sounded relieved. "Well, anyway, she was a sweet girl, but she more my brother's than mine."

"I understand." The subject of Éomer's lover naturally drew Lothiriel's curiosity, but now was not the time to pursue it.

"You have a friend now," Lothiriel said sincerely after a moment, and Éowyn looked at her. It was too dark to make out her expression, but Lothiriel sensed the emotion – she felt it too. "Now please, can we go inside? I cannot feel my toes or my ears."

"Oh, poor Lothiriel! You ought to have said something," Éowyn exclaimed, and put her arm around her, bringing her inside. "I forget you are not used to this weather."

"You ought to have come inside," Lothiriel retorted, and they laughed together shakily.

"I also wanted to say that I could not think of a more worthy woman for my cousin to wed," Lothiriel said as an afterthought as they walked through Meduseld. "He has written to tell me so much of you, and it is all proven true."

Éowyn smiled then, and her laugh was unexpected. "Truly?"

"Truly. You do love him, Éowyn?"

"I hardly know where I end and he begins," the woman said shyly. "Does that answer your question?"

Lothiriel watched her a bit wistfully as she took in the depth of her future sister-in-law's feeling for her cousin.

"Then you will be glad to see him. As will I," she added to herself. Her cousin was dear to her – Faramir and Boromir had been like two honorary brothers to her as they grew up. Again, both the children of Imrahil and those of Denethor knew what it was like to lack a mother, although Lothiriel knew that life with Denethor had certainly been much bleaker than her own.

_Boromir._ It hurt to think of him. She had not seen him for several years, but she remembered him to be strong and handsome, proud and mighty, brash and sometimes arrogant, but always laughing and endearing even when boasting. The man had offered up to all who knew him a heart of gold. And yet he had fallen.

Faramir had spoken very little of his brother that past summer at Minas tirith, but she knew the depth and complexity of her cousin's grief. If Faramir indeed found solace in Éowyn, then Lothiriel's blossoming affection toward the woman could only grow.

---

[A/N: Oh, Mothers, maybe I should have waited till Mother's day to post this. Hahah, just kidding. I'm sorry I update so rarely, I have NOT forgotten this. Happy spring! ~ GB]


	9. More Arrivals

**Chapter 9: More Arrivals**

It was a week before the date of the wedding that the party from Gondor arrived, with the addition of Lothíriel's father and eldest brother. All looked frozen and weary but happy to be at their destination. Lothíriel wanted to run to meet them, but forced herself to act more royal, to stand and wait on the terrace.

It was her father who broke his dignified approach, unable to restrain himself from running up the steps with remarkable agility for a man of sixty-four, and sweeping her into his arms. She laughed and embraced him back. "Ada," she cried. "I am so glad you have come."

When Imrahil drew back to look at her, there were tears in his eyes. "If I'd known how I would miss you, I would never have agreed to give you up."

"This is hardly the first time we have been apart," she protested.

"But it is the first time in years that you have been away and not the other way around. When I am away, I am occupied too much to be too lonely," he said with a wry smile. "But now you have left me an old man without the attentions of an affectionate daughter to make sure I drink my tea and go to bed at a decent hour."

Lothíriel kissed his cheek. "You only need to remember what I would say if I were there."

From behind Imrahil, Elphir cleared his throat. Lothíriel embraced him, a gesture her eldest brother returned a bit awkwardly – he was not known for his displays of physical affection.

Her eyes then sought Faramir's as he approached, anxious to greet him. She had dearly missed her cousin and had anxiously anticipated his arrival. Her attempts to catch his eye were in vain, however, for as Faramir dismounted and handed his mount's reins to a groom, his eyes clearly searching for a different target. When they came to rest on what they had sought, they held and warmed.

Éowyn, too impatient to wait, made her way carefully down the icy steps and, when she was close enough, Faramir swept her up off the remaining steps and into his arms, crushing her to him in a kiss that made Lothíriel blush. The crowd of villagers who had gathered to watch broke into cheers.

Moved though Lothíriel was by the couple's reunion, she tried not to watch too intently. She knew that it was natural for her cousin to only have eyes for his betrothed, that she herself could hardly expect to have his undivided attention, however much she might long for his sympathy and companionship. But accepting this change might not be so easy, she thought a bit bitterly, blinking back unwelcome tears. And to watch happy lovers, whoever they might be…

This would not do. Biting back her feelings, she arranged her features into a smile as the King Elessar ascended the steps to meet her. He was followed by the wizard Gandalf the White.

"Your majesty," Lothíriel said, sinking into a curtsy and lowering her eyes in respect. Strong hands raised her up and the king kissed both her cheeks in the formal greeting common among nobility in Gondor.

"Lothíriel, you are to be Queen of Rohan now and need not curtsy, even to me." Aragorn pulled back to address her. His gaze held keen curiosity as well as kindness in its steel depths.

She raised her chin and replied, "I am not yet a queen, nor will I ever stop being a princess of Gondor, so I will bow to you, my king." She was surprised by her own intensity.

Aragorn smiled then, a mask of youth passing over his grave face. He lowered his voice. "Then be careful, my lady, for when you tilt your chin in that manner, you become quite regal."

Lothíriel found it in her heart to smile, for the King's warmth was hard to resist. She was about to reply when Éomer, who had just appeared followed by Lothíriel's brothers, stepped forward to clasp Aragorn's shoulder.

"Friend, I am glad you have come," he said, and the two men embraced like brothers.

Lothíriel looked past them to greet Gandalf, who was merely watching all this unfold in silence. When he saw Lothíriel looking at him, a twinkle came in his eye and he gave a slight bow.

"Lady Lothíriel."

"Mithrandir," she said, returning the gesture. "Welcome."

"Are you well?"

He seemed to be searching her face for the answer. Lothíriel flushed. As always, a little intimidated by the legendary wizard in spite of his friendliness. She wondered what he truly thought of her. Could he read her thoughts?

"I am," she answered finally. "And you?"

"I am well," he smiled and his attention was promptly called away by Éomer, but she felt his gaze remain on her long after that.

"Cousin," Faramir said, having joined the group at last, Éowyn beside him. He held out his arms to her, and Lothíriel went to them in relief.

"I am so relieved you are here safely," she said, whispering into his chest as he embraced her. "You look wonderful!"

"I feel wonderful," he said, laughter in his voice. "Now let me look at you, hmm?" He drew away and held her at arm's length. As he studied her, a furrow passed over his brow

"What?" Lothíriel asked, catching it before it disappeared.

"Nothing. You look beautiful as ever," he said, then frowned in defeat. "You are too thin, I think. Are they feeding you here? Are you well?"

Lothíriel nodded, uncomfortable under all this scrutiny, first from Aragorn, then from Gandalf, and now from her cousin. She just wanted to relax in the company of a man she knew well, who for once was not one of her teasing brothers.

"Please, Éomer, let us invite these guests inside," she said loudly. "Come in, all of you. It is freezing and you must be weary."

She stood aside and waited for the party to file in, the members of the Fellowship and Faramir followed by a small handful of men and women of Gondorian nobility whom Lothíriel hardly knew and could have done without. She found it within herself to smile respectfully at each of them and welcome them to Rohan.

She did recognize one of the ladies, Ivorwen. The young wife of a much older nobleman was a distant relation through marriage, although Lothíriel could never remember exactly how. Although the two had only met a handful of times, Lothíriel had never really liked the other woman's cold showy manner, from whom she felt a great disdain directed at herself.

"Lothíriel," Ivorwen said in her high, flutelike voice as she passed. "May I extend my congratulations on your," her eyes flicked to Éomer and she curtsied to him briefly before turning back to Lothíriel. "Rather advantageous match."

"Ivorwen," Lothíriel replied, unimpressed by this woman's attempts at rattling her. "Welcome."

Éomer, standing across from her caught her eye briefly. He then did something unexpected – he winked. She could not help but grin in secretive response, surprised at his quick reading of the situation.

Shortly, all were inside and most of the travelers were waiting to be shown to their lodgings. There was hardly comfortable room for all of them in Meduseld itself, but they would be accommodated among the homes of the more affluent families in the village. Lothíriel was vaguely amused at the thought of Ivorwen in a Rohirric cottage, even one well-kept and comfortable. She also held a great deal of pity for the host of such a cottage.

As the party dispersed, Faramir caught Lothíriel's arm and drew her aside. "Tell me truthfully," he whispered. "Are you faring all right?"

"I am as well as can be expected, Faramir," she whispered back, then felt her face crumple in spite of her best efforts to stay her tears. "I miss home." He pulled her into his arms wordlessly and stroked her hair.

"It is a lot for a person to bear," he whispered finally. "I know."

She nodded and closed her eyes as she rested her head against his shoulder. "It is not so bad, truly. I am not as unhappy as you might think – Éowyn and some of the others here have been most welcoming. In fact, I adore your betrothed and am glad to be able to call her both my sister and cousin."

"All this is good to hear," he said, taking her arm and walking her away down the corridor. "And Éomer? How are things between you?"

"I hardly know," she said honestly. "He is as polite as ever, but I cannot help but dread what is to come."

"Ah," Faramir said and put his arm around her, pulling her close. "You do not expect to find happiness with him? No chance at love there?"

She shook her head. "No. In truth, I feel I hardly know him."

"Well, that will change in time," he said. "I cannot speak for your feelings for him, but tell me truthfully, how could any man not fall in love with you?" He smiled teasingly, and she granted him with a small smile, although her heart remained heavy.

"It is more complicated than that," she said after a moment. "You do not know, do you? Éomer loved another, just years ago. She died during the war, although not at the enemy's hand."

"He still grieves for her?" Faramir asked with a frown.

"I believe so," Lothíriel asked. "He does not seek to love again, nor does he seem to want it. The part of him that could ever love a woman so deeply died with her. Or so he says, and I believe him. His heart is in a grave."

"Have you considered the possibility that you might be the one to dig it up again?" Faramir asked her, his gaze intent on her face.

Lothíriel started at his words. "You and my father place extraordinary faith in my abilities," she retorted. "And yet, I have yet to find a way to help myself, let alone anyone else." She covered her mouth with her hand, upset that she had spoken her deepest misgivings about her own self.

"Well, the two of you might – "

"Faramir," she stopped him before he could continue this nonsense. "I did not come to Rohan because I sought or expected to find love here. I came because when Éomer proposed, he spoke of his resolve to serve his country the best he could, and I felt that it would be dishonorable to refuse. I wanted to honor our countries' alliances. And yes, I wanted to help Éomer, but only because I saw how he needed me to help rebuild his country, and I could not resist. I wanted to do something – useful!" she confessed haltingly. Faramir nodded and she softened.

"Faramir, I dare not hope for more than a life of comfort and security, spent in service to Rohan. Hopefully I will learn how to be a good queen. But to expect love? That would only end in a lifetime of disappointment. And yet, it comforts me to know that no one has every needed me in such a way before. My life has had little meaning until now. If a marriage of love is not to be mine, then so be it. I am determined to make the best of it."

Faramir took all this in, a strange expression on his face.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Just look at you," he said, shaking his head rather sadly. "You grew up when I was not looking."

Lothíriel sniffed and waved his words away. "You are speaking nonsense. Go! Find your lady."

Éomer, watching his sister embrace the dark-haired Faramir of Gondor, had felt an odd twinge of relief. So the affection the two shared was indeed real, made very apparent by the way they clung to each other. Until that moment, Éomer had not been so sure of his sister's feelings on account of her prior attachment to Aragorn, and had wondered whether Éowyn had, at least in some small respect, settled for Faramir out of pride or simply out of disinterest. He could see quite clearly now that his apprehensions had been foolish - Éowyn had never been one to settle, after all, and this man clearly loved her and was worthy of her. Éomer was pleased. He had been glad to see his friends, and would be heartened to converse with them over the coming weeks. But at the moment, Lothíriel held his attention.

The young woman surprised him daily, although he had for the most part been watching from afar. He could see that she was starting to become more at ease here in Edoras. She had been spending a great deal of time with Éowyn and other women in the House, and seemed to be grateful for their company. Éomer was a bit relieved to see that she was not shutting herself away and seemed to be quite open to those around her. He could see that she was trying hard to become acquainted to this new land and its people and customs. And he respected her for making the best of her situation.

And now she had welcomed the guests as if this was her home as well as his – it heartened him to see it.

"How fares Gondor?" asked Amrothos at dinner that night, directing his question towards all of the guests.

Aragorn, Gandalf, and Faramir had joined them, along with most of the others. A man in his twenties, Lord Hallas, was there, having brought with him his newlywed wife Guilien, a sweet young woman who managed to wield her gaze in a slyly coquettish manner that Lothíriel had never mastered. Lothíriel had, as a young girl of fifteen on a three-month visit to Minas tirith, been rather in love with Lord Hallas, but to no avail. Now she was mostly amused to remember her hapless efforts to gain his attention, though deep down, the memory of his kind rejection still stung her pride. Also there was Lord Dervorin, an old friend of Lothíriel's father. Lothíriel had been pleased to learn that Lady Ivorwen had declined the invitation, preferring to rest and eat alone. Her husband Lord Aravir was there, however, and Lothíriel was heartened to find that the older man was much more jovial than he ever was with Ivorwen on his arm.

"Gondor heals," Aragorn said after a moment. "There is much to rebuild."

Everyone nodded in quiet comprehension. Though they were in peacetime, there were many scars that remained from the war.

"And Gondor's queen?" Éomer asked with interest that was shared by many at the table – Lothíriel's brothers perked up noticeably at the mention of the beautiful elf queen. "Why has she not come?"

Aragorn paused for a moment, a strange expression on his face. "She dearly wishes she could be here, but at the last moment, we thought it best if she did not travel in her condition."

Lothíriel gasped audibly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "You mean – "

Everyone looked at her, and she flushed. Aragorn could not hold back his smile for long. "It seems that Gondor will be gifted with a new addition to the royal family come the summer."

After a moment of absorbing the meaning of this statement, the table erupted in expressions of surprise and congratulations. Lothíriel joined in, pleased for her friends and distracted momentarily from her thoughts.

As the excitement died down, Lothíriel's eyes met Éomer's from across the table and held for a moment. He nodded to her in acknowledgment, then turned his attention to Guilien, who was seated to his left. But he had been looking at her at length before she had noticed him, she was sure of it. Why? She sobered as a thought struck her – what would it be like to bear Éomer's child?

Was it possible he had been thinking similar thoughts? What would he feel when he looked at her, knowing…

Lothíriel shook those thoughts out of her head and turned her thoughts to the conversation happening to her left. Her three brothers and Éothain were in heated discussion about the merits of Rohirric honeyed mead and the sweet wine famous in Dol Amroth. The discussion was three against one in favor of honeyed mead, but Elphir, ever a Gondorian through and through, stood firm in his support of Dol Amroth's wine. Lothíriel listened to this conversation with interest, although she felt that she herself had little to contribute to either argument.

She tried her best to ignore the unsettling gaze of Éomer, which she knew was frequently trained on her from across the long table.

[A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed, favorited, story alerted, and waited so patiently for the next update! Your support means the world to me, and encourages me to keep writing, even if I take ages and ages to do so! xox, GB]


	10. Midwinter Gifts

10. Midwinter Gifts

"Éomer, might I have a word?" the Prince Imrahil asked Éomer that night as the supper party dispersed, catching his arm as Éomer meant to leave.

"Of course," Éomer replied, caught off guard but not entirely surprised. "Walk with me if you will."

"It is good to see you again," Imrahil said after a moment. "And to see your homeland after all these years – I had almost forgotten its strange sort of beauty, but now that I am here it captures me again."

"Yes – Rohan does have that power, doesn't it?" Éomer said with a touch of pride over the lure of his homeland. "So tell me, my friend, of what is it that you wished to speak with me?" He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to spur this conversation along.

Imrahil cleared his throat. "My daughter, if you can believe it."

"I can." Éomer clasped his hands behind his back and waited for his friend and future father-in-law to continue.

"How is she? Tell me truthfully, for you know she would never want to worry me." The older man said this with an air of lightness, but beneath his smile looked truly concerned.

Éomer was uncertain of how to answer this. He hardly wanted to admit to Imrahil that he had, by and large, been avoiding Lothíriel with determination. "I – I think she is adjusting rather well."

"She is adaptive," Imrahil said. "She has always been so. But for all her resilience, I fear that she will reach her breaking point if care is not taken to make sure she is well in spirit."

Éomer was quiet. "I detect a certain fragility about her, it is true. But she seldom seems willing to show it."

"She wants to be strong. And she is," Imrahil said quickly. "But no one can be strong all of the time. Lothíriel takes her desire for self-control to excess." He looked at Éomer, then away. "When her mother died, there was a time when I thought I might lose Lothíriel too. You can imagine what that fear must have been like for me."

Éomer tried to absorb this information. "What do you mean by losing her?"

"She locked herself away for a time," Imrahil said. "From all of us – she hid her grief with harsh words, if she gave any at all. She disobeyed me, acted the rebel, even ran away on several occasions. She stopped eating properly. She did not even let herself cry at her mother's funeral, and if she cried at all, it must have been in private. All this lasted months, until she made herself ill from it. She was eleven years old."

"What brought her back?" Éomer asked, wondering at this new insight into Lothíriel's past.

Imrahil took a while to answer. "I think it was Amrothos. But I will never be sure exactly. All I know is that my daughter came back to life again, thank the Valar. But do you see why I tell you this?"

Éomer was hesitant. "Do you fear she might travel down that path again?"

"In a sense, yes, I do," Imrahil said. "I wanted you to be aware of it so that you can keep an eye on her. She has been through a great deal in the last year, first with holding Dol Amroth together and helping with the wounded during the war and now with preparing to wed you, with leaving her home. She has appeared resilient through all of it but you see that I have reason to fear for her well-being. If she suffers, she may disguise it, although I hope she has learned to let herself be open to those around her. No one can be strong indefinitely. She needs tenderness, as do we all." He looked Éomer in the eyes intently and gripped his shoulders. "I am entrusting my daughter to you. Take care of her, Éomer."

Éomer was overwhelmed but could hardly refuse this man's entreaty or show hesitation in his face. "I will do my best." He placed his hands on the man's shoulders in return. "You have my word."

"Good man," Imrahil said with a smile that broke the tension. "I know you will. So, tell me about that warhorse of yours. I remember you had plans to breed him."

That night, Éomer was left with much to think about. So Lothíriel, like him, had a past. He could not help feeling drawn to her a little more, knowing that perhaps she understood what he himself had gone through. He certainly was not about to stand back and watch another woman fade away if he could help it. But how could he take care of her, when at times he felt he could barely handle taking care of himself? He was beginning to think that perhaps in getting married he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nothing was as simple as he would like it to be.

* * *

Imrahil was only the first to seek Éomer out with regard to Lothíriel. The very next morning, Erchirion and Amrothos commandeered Éomer on his way out of the stables and told him that if he did not treat their sister well they would personally disembowel him and leave his body in a ditch by the side of the road at the eastern border of Rohan, where bands of orcs still roamed, "or worse."

Then, later that day, Faramir found him brooding in the Great Hall and sat down beside him with vigor. "You marry my cousin in less than a week. Why are you here, skulking by yourself, and not with her, getting to know her?"

Éomer looked at the other man in shock.

"Forgive me my impudence," Faramir said quickly. "But I like you, Éomer. You are my future brother-in-law, so it is good that I like you. You are good company, and you are an intelligent man. But, frankly, in regard to my cousin, you are being a bit of a dolt. You are going to marry the girl, not hire her as a stablehand or place her beside your throne like a decorative sculpture. So talk to her. You might like her, after all."

Éomer stood up, annoyed at this constant barrage, but mostly at the fact that this man was completely right. "Thank you for your insight, Faramir. Now, begging your leave…"

"Please do not take offense," called the other man as Éomer hurried away. "I speak out of concern for both of you."

Éomer set his jaw and went to find Éothain, whom he hoped might be sympathetic as an old friend. But it was not to be so.

He found his steward in his home, a cottage close to Meduseld – Éothain preferred to live as simply as he always had. The man was seated on the floor, surrounded by a pile of dried flowered herbs, and he was deftly weaving them together.

"What are you doing?" Éomer asked, momentarily distracted from his troubles. He bent down to peer at Éothain's handiwork.

Éothain held up a nearly finished bracelet. "Midwinter gifts."

"Multiple ladies, or just one?" Éomer asked at that, grinning. The longest night of the year was the next one, and there would be a feast in Meduseld, though smaller this year because the wedding would take place just days later, and it would be too much to have two major celebrations in such a short span of time. "For you have quite a lot of herbs there."

Éothain's gaze was serious and pointed, instead of smiling the way he ought to have at Éomer's teasing. "Just one."

"The one I think you mean?" Éomer asked warily. "Éothain, she lost her husband not even a year past."

"I know," the other man said tersely. "And this is to remind her of our enduring friendship, not to imply anything more."

"Are you certain of that?" Éomer asked, furrowing his brow. He knew the depth of his friend's true feeling for the woman in question.

"Éomer, let me worry about my own problems. You have your own wedding to think about," Éothain deflected with barely a falter in the timing of his response. "So what is it, anyway, that caused you to nearly bang down my door? Anything having to do with that very subject?"

"You know me too well," Éomer conceded, taking his place on the ground next to his friend. He told Éothain of what Faramir had said.

"He's right, you know," was Éothain's response.

Éomer groaned. "You were supposed to be on my side."

"I make a point of not taking sides with idiots." Éothain shrugged. "And you are being one."

"You know how hard it is for me," Éomer protested. "How do I reach out to her when the reminder of our circumstances stands so firmly in the way?"

"You just do," Éothain replied. "It is not your circumstances but you who stands in the way of yourself."

Éomer picked up some herbs and fiddled with them, pulling them apart in frustration. He knew Éothain was right although it begrudged him to admit it. "So how do I begin?"

After a moment, Éothain looked up at him with a twinkle in his eye. "Give the girl a Midwinter gift."

"I beg your pardon?" Éomer stared at him.

"You heard me," Éothain said. "And stop doing that, you're making a mess." He gestured to the tiny bits of dried herbs that were now littering the ground in front of Éomer's folded legs.

Éomer dropped the herbs. "You expect me to court her, like I was in love with her?" He slammed his fists into the ground, barely wincing as the pain kicked in seconds later. "Why, so she will fall at my feet? I expect soon I'll be asked to make myself fall in love with her!"

"No one is asking you to fall in love with her," Éothain said more gently. "Nor to make her love you. Just… make her feel welcome. Show her a little kindness."

"I am kind to her," Éomer grumbled.

"No, you are civil to her, there is a difference." Éothain held out the newly finished bracelet. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," Éomer said, peering at the bracelet with new interest. He let out a heavy breath, suddenly feeling a bit lighter. "So I am to give Lothíriel a gift, then?"

"That's right," Éothain replied, grinning.

"Hmm…"

* * *

"Éothain is somehow very wise," Éomer said to Firefoot the next day on his customary morning visit. "Even I must admit to that."

Firefoot shook his mane and pawed the ground.

"You want to ride, don't you? You could not care less about my troubles, could you?" He laughed. "Well, I am sorry, but the icy grounds make it too dangerous. If it thaws a little with the sun this afternoon, I will try my best to slip away and take you out."

Firefoot snorted in what Éomer assumed was agreement.

Momentarily, Éomer looked up at the sound of movement at the stall door. Lothíriel stood there, her pale face framed by the deep blue of her cloak. The striking shade had been a common sight over the last month – from a distance, one could easily pick out Lothíriel in a sea of the other, muted colors that dotted the white snow that covered the ground and rooftops.

"Happy Midwinter," she said softly.

"Happy Midwinter," he replied, wondering what she was doing there. Had she sought him out? That would be a new development. She had saved him the trouble of finding her, whatever the cause of this visit was. Firefoot snorted in her direction, and pawed at the ground. "Firefoot extends the same greetings."

She smiled at that, though she remained uncertain. "I brought him a Midwinter's gift. May I?" She held up a carrot.

"Of course." He gestured her in with a flourish that received another small smile as she opened the lower section of the split door and stepped inside. "Careful now," he warned. "He does not always take kindly to strangers."

She raised her eyebrows and held out the treat, palm flat as any good horseman was trained to do to prevent losing fingers. Firefoot approached her, sniffing the air curiously. He lipped at the treat and then took it greedily.

Both Lothíriel and Éomer laughed as the stallion chomped at the carrot. To Éomer's surprise, when the horse finished he craned his neck out towards Lothíriel and nickered, looking for more. He sniffed her all over, then, having failed to find treats, began to nuzzle Lothíriel quite intently.

"Apologies, Firefoot," Lothíriel said with a giggle as Firefoot nibbled her sleeve. "I gave all my other treats away already. No, don't eat me." She put her hand on his nose and moved his mouth away from its target. The animal then allowed her to scratch his forehead, and Éomer watched in amazement.

"He likes you," he said, gathering his wits about him.

"You sound surprised," she replied archly.

"Well, you are a stranger."

She gave him a half-smile and shook her head. "We are well acquainted. You are not the only one who finds in Firefoot a kind ear. We have had many a good chat, Firefoot and I."

Éomer took a moment to absorb this information, unsure of how he felt about sharing Firefoot's affection. He had grown attached to the idea of himself as the temperamental horse's sole human companion. "Is that so?"

"Yes. You don't mind?" she looked a bit concerned at the thought.

"No," he responded quickly. "At least, I don't think I do."

She stared at him strangely for a moment, then returned her attention to the horse. "I have something for you as well," she said after a period of silence, during which Éomer traced circles with his foot in the wood chips that lined the bottom of the stall. "A Midwinter gift, of sorts."

Éomer was taken aback but tried to cover his surprise. This was indeed turning out to be an unexpected visit. "You did?"

She reached into the pocket sewn on the inside of her cloak, suddenly shy again. "Here," she said, extracting a small package and offering it to him. "It is nothing much but I thought I ought to give you something. I had my brother Elphir bring it with him from Dol Amroth."

He accepted the package and turned it over in his hands. Whatever it was, it was not too heavy but substantial nonetheless. The package was longer than it was wide. "Should I open it now?"

She shrugged. "If you would like." She folded her hands and waited, looking expectant.

He carefully tore open the paper and extracted from a swab of blue velvet a small dagger. The hilt unmistakably resembled the head, neck and wings of a swan, the emblem of Dol Amroth. He weighed the weapon in his hand and inspected the quality of the metal. He looked up at Lothíriel. She was biting her lip.

"This is a good weapon," he said truthfully. "Thank you."

She looked relieved to see that he did indeed like it. "It's to remind you that although you are now also a diplomat, you are still a warrior king."

She remembered that conversation, then, as vividly as he did. Éomer was truly touched and tried to convey that feeling without saying it in so many words. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Lothíriel replied. They smiled hesitantly at each other before Lothíriel cleared her throat. "Well, I should probably – "

"Wait, I have something for you in return," Éomer interjected, clearing his throat. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

Lothíriel obliged as he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the bracelet he had made with Éothain's help. It had taken him three tries to achieve any success at all, and several more before he could make one that also held any semblance of beauty.

Carefully, he took Lothíriel's hand and slipped the wreath onto her wrist, watching her expression carefully as he did so. She looked like she was trying not to laugh or open her eyes from curiosity.

"Open them."

She opened her eyes and looked at her wrist. "Why, this is beautiful!" She fingered the wreath and raised her gaze to meet his. "Did you make it?"

"With difficulty. I am a warrior, not a craftsman," he replied wryly.

"Well, perhaps you should pursue the latter occupation in your spare time," she said with a pointed smile, as she obviously knew that Éomer's spare time was indeed spare. "Truly, it is lovely. Thank you."

"It was nothing," Éomer lied. "Will you walk up to Meduseld with me?"

She looked pleased as she nodded and accepted the invitation. Éomer gave her his arm and they fell into pace with each other as they walked out of the stable and made their way up the hill.

"So tell me about this Lady Ivorwen," Éomer said with the intent of making conversation. "For she strikes me as a most – remarkable woman. Has she always had a burr under her saddle?"

Lothíriel's unladylike snort was response enough for him, and he laughed all the way up to the Golden Hall.

* * *

When Éomer first caught sight of Lothíriel that night at the feast, he could not help but suck in his breath. She was wearing a gown of deep green, the color of Rohan, and he noted that it was in the style of his people, a fact that touched him deeply. What was more, he found the sight of her arresting. The creamy paleness of her skin looked luminous against the deep green of her gown. The gown's bodice hugged the curves of her body closely down to her hips, below which the dark green fabric opened up and was drawn away to reveal an under-gown of lighter green embroidery. Her golden belt was simple, which pleased him – he strongly disliked overly ornate clothing.

When he looked back at Lothíriel's face, she met his gaze squarely, the corner of her mouth twitching. She had caught his once-over glance. What must she think of him?

He cleared his throat as she approached him, placing his hands behind his back. She swept a curtsy, and he bowed slightly in return.

"Do I have your approval?" She smiled up at him.

Éomer nodded after a moment. "Yes," he said simply. There was nothing more he could say, no jest or quip that might deflect her from the truth.

She looked him up and down and raised her chin. "Good. You have mine as well." He saw the amusement in her eyes. "No stains or bits of straw, at least. You are not a barbarian."

Her confidence and easy rebuttal of his own assessment of her caught him off guard but he recovered quickly and held out his hand. "Will you come sit beside me?"

"I believe custom deems I must," she said with a gesture to the place clearly reserved for her. "But it happens that I would be glad to join you." As she lifted her hand to place it in his, Éomer watched her sleeve fall away to reveal his bracelet on her slender wrist. Seeing what had captured his gaze, Lothíriel met his eyes and smiled.

As Éomer and Lothíriel took their places, a hush fell over the crowded hall. A sea of faces looked back at them, assessing the picture – their still-new king and a not-yet queen. Éomer swallowed. He loved his people and had accepted this charge of leading and protecting them, but it was times like these when he felt very small, very unfit to rule. Beside him, he sensed Lothíriel tense up as well. What must she feel, he wondered, confronted with the same sight?

An amazing thing happened then. Somehow, her hand found his under the table and gave it a quick and gentle squeeze. His mouth twitched, and he felt a bit calmer. They were in this together.

Throughout the meal, Lothíriel could not help but reflect back on those first few interactions with Éomer, where every word between them was stilted and carefully measured. Although they were still strangers at large, at least now the tension had eased.

If she ignored the thought of wedding him, of bedding him, of bearing his children, she could bear sitting next to him, talking with him, even laughing with him (and how strange that now she saw him laugh, when all those months ago all she could see was a grave, sad man – now she saw a sad man who, in between bouts of darkness, was as quick to smile as he was to frown). Perhaps they were becoming friends, allied by their shared apprehension of being suddenly rulers, softened by the exchange of gifts and kind words, and (at least for her part) drawn toward the other by knowledge of the challenges that person faced.

Éomer's past still stood firmly between them, however, and Lothíriel was certain that it would likely never fade.

* * *

Much, much later, as the last few guests were departing and making their way down the hill to their homes, Lothíriel too made her way towards the warmth and comfort of her own bed, but her mission was quickly interrupted by the sight upon which she stumbled.

A couple was standing together in the dim light of the golden hall, their shapes silhouetted against the flickering light of torches. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, but his posture hinted at something close to apprehension. The woman's head was bowed as she looked at something she held in her hand. Lothíriel meant to turn away and flee before she was noticed, but as the woman looked up, her face caught the light and Lothíriel realized it was Brithwyn. Her curiosity got the better of her and Lothíriel remained a moment in the shadows to listen.

"Éothain, you know I cannot accept this." The woman's intense whisper carried in the emptiness to Lothíriel's ears and she widened her eyes in shock. Éothain… and Brithwyn?

"It is a token of friendship, nothing more," the man whose identity had now been revealed replied evenly. "A symbol of the regard I have held for you have since we were children. I give this to you with the same intent– "

"Am I expected to believe that, Éothain? You stood beside me and my husband in friendship and nothing more, never secretly hoping for what did eventually come to pass, so the way might be clear for you to woo me?" Brithwyn's voice was hard and flecked with a rawness of which Lothíriel had never imagined the gentle, composed woman to be capable.

"With the same intent that I stood by your husband until his death, fighting beside him, mentoring him, protecting him as best I could – all because I knew how you loved him, because you asked me, nay, begged me to watch out for him!" Éothain interrupted, fists clenched. "That you could accuse me of such pettiness wounds me more than you could ever imagine, Brithwyn. If I could have gotten to him in time, the blow that killed him would have fallen on me, and I would have it be so if it meant you would think upon me with but a little of the affection you once held in your heart."

Brithwyn looked at him, her countenance visibly wavering, but she only said, "Éothain, I would to Béma that it had been so."

Lothíriel winced at the harshness of this statement. She knew she should leave, right now, but to attract attention to herself at this point would prove disastrous.

"That I had died in place of Hunfred?" Éothain asked, his voice almost inaudibly low. "Or that I speak the truth, that my actions up to this point have indeed been rooted in the desire to protect your happiness – and your welfare, for that matter? Because I am afraid that only the latter wish could ever be granted to you now – but no longer." He stepped away, hands raised in a gesture of defeat. "Take the bracelet, Brithwyn. Do what you will with it, but for the Mearas' sake, do not think that I could ever want it back. I wash my hands of your indifference and your cruelty."

Brithwyn's shaky gasp hung in the air as Éothain turned on his heel. As he did so his eyes came to rest directly on Lothíriel in the shadows, and he scoffed in annoyance before disappearing. Brithwyn followed his gaze, and she looked at Lothíriel with half-focused, disbelieving eyes before fleeing the scene.

Lothíriel was on the verge of following the woman, and would have done so had a hand not caught her wrist – the same wrist around which her own bracelet encircled. She gasped, and turned to see Éomer's eyes glinting at her in the torchlight. "I – you – what?" Where had he come from?

"Stay, Lothíriel, theirs is not our business to intrude upon anymore than we already have," he whispered with a glance in the direction where the two had just stood.

"But I want to apologize – wait. We?" Lothíriel asked, for a moment forgetting her concern for Brithwyn and Éothain.

She could see his mouth quirk. "I fear we both share a voyeuristic tendency. I happened upon this exchange at about the same time you did, I imagine, and like you I could not help but listen."

"How awful of us," Lothíriel whispered, her cheeks warming at being caught eavesdropping, but the sting of her embarrassment was softened by the knowledge of his shared culpability. She realized that he still held her wrist and looked down at the evidence, blushing further. His gaze followed hers and he let go immediately. Lothíriel rubbed her arm unconsciously – his grip had been quite firm. He noticed.

"Forgive me," he said with obvious embarrassment.

Lothíriel shook her head. "It's nothing." Her thoughts traveled back to what she had just learned. "Did you know?"

"Of the relationship between the seamstress and Éothain? Yes," Éomer conceded. "It is complicated. They were childhood friends – sweethearts, perhaps you might have called them, but if their mutual affections ever progressed to those of lovers, it did not work out between them. Why, well, I have ideas, but I do not know for certain. Brithwyn married another, and Éothain…" he sighed. "Well, Éothain took any disappointment he might have felt in his stride and soldiered on."

"But he loves her," Lothíriel interjected.

"Yes, he does." Éomer looked rather saddened as he said this. "If he was jealous, he rose above it and has since acted with the same sense of honor that he has always shown in life. He befriended Hunfred, if only because Brithwyn asked him to, and he was prepared to protect the man – a good man, a fair fighter, but with the soul of a poet, not a warrior - to the end but could not reach him in time on the Pelennor." He looked at Lothíriel intently. "Brithwyn's words spring from grief and anger. I know in my heart that Éothain's intentions have always been true."

Lothíriel nodded slowly. "And does she love him, do you think?"

"That I do not know. You would have to ask her." Éomer sighed again. "Whatever her feelings, after all he has done for her, she would be a fool if she let her words toward him this evening go without apology. It was Éothain who convinced me to find a place for Brithwyn and her sister in Meduseld after they, like so many women, were left without the protection of a man or family. He could not bear to see her scrape by for survival."

Lothíriel watched as a sense of heaviness fell over Éomer's shoulders. She could see that the reminder of yet another struggle for his people affected him, and wondered what she could say. She was not quick enough, however, for he seemed to realize he had fallen into deep thought and shook his head to clear it. "Enough of this talk. It is very late. You must be exhausted."

Lothíriel nodded, struggling to find the words to bid him goodnight, but he seemed to sense that she was a little overwhelmed. "Can you find your way to your room?"

She nodded. "Of course."

His smile was small but warm. "Good."

Lothíriel felt overcome with the urge to touch him again, then, to make a friendly gesture of goodnight, but she did not know how, and so she merely returned the smile and left. She felt that there was a barrier there that she was not authorized to cross, at least not in so intimate a manner. A squeeze of the hand was one thing, and a proffered arm in public was another, but to embrace him or softly caress his cheek – such intimate gestures of comfort and affection she had always envisioned making towards a husband or lover – those actions were not for Éomer. Not for her.

In retrospect, as she prepared for bed, it struck her as odd that she would want to.

[A/N: Well, hello there. Good to see you again, , good to see you. As always, sorry for the long wait, but this chapter is one of the longest I've ever written, and it's taken time to get it to where I wanted it to be (for a long while, I didn't know). I'm surprising myself with the way this story is developing. Thanks to all who have been following this story, I've received some very thoughtful and encouraging reviews since the last update! I hope you like this chapter. ~ GB]


	11. Borrowed and Blue

11. Borrowed and Blue

The morning of the wedding, Lothíriel woke early with a start, her heart pounding, and for a moment wondered why before realization flooded her conscious. She would marry Éomer in a matter of hours. With a dramatic sigh, she flopped back down upon the bed and shut her eyes, willing herself to fall back into a few more moments of blissful sleep, but now her mind was wide awake. She burrowed her head under the covers to combat the insufferable cold.

A knock on the door – Isemay, by the sound of it – forced her to raise her head and accept reality. "Come in."

Isemay entered with her customary cheerfulness and eager tongue and began to light a fire in the brazier. Lothíriel only half-listened to the girl's chatter as she went about the business of heating water for Lothíriel's bath, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. So after all the anxious waiting, today had finally come. And how strange that today she felt an eerie sense of calm.

* * *

Éomer, for his part, awoke to the sensation of Firefoot nibbling at his hair. "Get off, it's not my watch," he mumbled as he pushed the horse's muzzle away, thinking that he was out on patrol with his company of riders. Then the bitter cold hit his conscience and he sat straight up, bits of straw flying off of him and his bedroll. No, he was king, the days of living in the saddle were behind him and today was his wedding day.

"_Béma,_" he muttered, massaging the cricks from his neck. His sudden movement had sent spasms down his back. Unable to sleep the night before, he had grabbed his old bedroll and hiked down to the stables, where the familiar sounds and comfort of Firefoot's presence had lulled him to sleep.

Firefoot shook his mane and whinnied, answered by a neighbor down the way. Éomer checked the horse's grain bucket. It was clean and empty, signaling that he had awoken before the stable hands had made their rounds, and the horses were hungry. _Good_. He had time to sneak back up to Meduseld before anybody saw their king sleeping in the hay.

* * *

"Sister!" The knock on the door and her brothers' raucous voices came as a jolt to Lothíriel. Fresh from her bath, she was in the midst of wrapping herself in her dressing gown while Isemay toweled dry her sopping hair. She groaned. She did not particularly want to see anyone, not even her brothers.

"Are you decent?" said Amrothos as he burst into the room followed by Erchirion. Elphir had the courtesy to wait at the door until he was sure she was in fact decent.

"If I was not, it would hardly have ma to you, would it?" Lothíriel said in annoyance, picking up the nearest object within reach and throwing it at him. He ducked the hairbrush and straightened, his hands raised.

"What, are you waging battle already? You are not a ruler yet!"

"Practicing," she retorted. Her brothers chuckled. She looked at them all full in the face. "What are you doing here?"

"To wish you well," Elphir said kindly. Erchirion and Amrothos looked at each other, amusement lighting in their eyes and twitching at the corners of their lips.

"What?" she said, curious and confused.

"Sister," began Amrothos.

"Sit down," Erchirion said, leading her to the bed. They sat on either side of her, Elphir still lingering at the door.

"What is going on?" Lothíriel snapped. She had little patience for dilly-dallying.

"We just saw something very amusing," Amrothos said calmly. "Well, to us. Boring to you, maybe. Nothing you would want to hear."

Erchirion nodded. "Very commonplace. It would bore you." Lothíriel pinched him in the ribs. "Ow!"

"What did you see?" she said, pinching harder.

"Oww! Have mercy! Amrothos, you tell it!"

"We were up quite early this morning," Amrothos began.

"Well, actually, we never really went to bed!" interjected Erchirion.

"True," Amrothos replied. "Well, Elphir did."

"Yes. In my old married age, I went to bed, while these two stumbled into the beds of two sisters on their way from the tavern – " said Elphir with a chuckle.

"Stop right here," protested Lothíriel, hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear about your exploits." She glared at them as they guiltily fell into silence, their cocksure smirks fading from their faces. Finally she removed her hands from her ears and placed them in her lap. "Now. What is it that you wished to tell me?"

"Well, merely that a certain Horse Lord was seen sneaking up from the stables at sunrise this morning, clutching a bedroll and covered in straw," Amrothos said, biting back a grin.

She looked among them and a snort escaped her nose. "Truly?"

"Truly," Erchirion said. "It seems you will have to share your husband with a horse," he whispered, wiggling his eyebrows. Amrothos and Elphir laughed, and Lothíriel blushed. She could not help but grin. Of course she would. It was a silly thought. Except…

"I bet he is nervous," Lothíriel whispered to herself. "The stables are where our King feels more at home." _Poor Éomer. _

Her three brothers fell into silence then, until finally Lothíriel looked up at them seriously. "I must dress now."

They nodded, and stood, and filed out of her room, each in turn pressing a kiss upon her forehead as he left.

* * *

"What am I supposed to do with her after all this ceremonial fuss is completed?" Éomer complained in a heavy breath, fumbling with the golden clasps on his green tunic and swearing under his breath.

Éothain laughed from where he lounged in one of the chairs by the fire in the brazier. "What mean you by that?"

"I mean she is to share my bed tonight," Éomer relented.

"Well, Éomer, when a man and a woman – " Éothain began, teasing in his voice.

"Exactly," snapped Éomer, not in the mood for teasing. "Herein lies the problem." He raked a comb through his hair with vigor, wincing as it encountered a snarl.

Éothain sighed. "I see, my lord king." The younger man leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped. "Éomer, do you not find her at all attractive?"

"Why, I – yes, I find her exceedingly so," Éomer said. "She has an interesting face, I would call her beautiful."

"And as a woman?" Éothain pressed.

Éomer had to admit that he did.

"And all this being said, wherein exactly lies the problem?"

"There are many snarls, the foremost being that we are not lovers; we are diplomatic partners."

"But you are also both two people, are you not?" Éothain asked after a moment. "You might find that you find satisfaction from each other. I know you have few misgivings about bedding a woman you do not love every now and then."

"That's different," muttered Éomer.

"How so?"

"They are not shy untouched maidens, for one."

Éothain let out a breath in a whistle. "There is that. Do you know for certain?"

"Think not that I would be angry otherwise, but that is what she is supposed to be." Éomer sighed. "And look at her. I cannot imagine otherwise."

Éothain seemed to agree on this subject but said nothing. Éomer continued to dress in silence until Éothain said,

"I imagine that Lothíriel has no grand expectations for tonight. She will no doubt have been informed of the facts of marriage, and has had plenty of time to accustom herself to the idea of sharing your bed. Just be kind and gentle to her and get it over with, if you have no other way of going about bedding her. That is my only advice to you. Éomer king." Éothain stood and grabbed his king's belt from where it had fallen to the ground. "You had best let me help you. We are running out of time."

* * *

As Brithwyn, Éowyn and Isemay fussed with her gown and hair, tugging at the folds of her skirts and sleeves so that they fell correctly, re-lacing up her bodice, and taming stray raven locks with small amounts of lavender paste, Lothíriel stood mostly passive except when asked to take in her breath or raise her arms. This was all a dream, she thought. Any moment, she would wake up and be back in her bed at Dol Amroth, lying as listless and discontent as she had been the morning before Éomer's proposal. Nothing would have disrupted the monotony of her previous existence. But she would be home.

"Now look in the mirror, my lady," said Isemay, an eager smile on her lively face. The younger girl pulled her reluctant mistress toward her reflection, Éowyn and Brithwyn flanking her with triumphant grins.

Lothíriel had chosen to wed in a gown of Dol Amroth blue, as members of her family had done for generations. However, the dress was cut according to the Rohirric style to symbolize her new allegiance, with a rich over-gown that cut away to reveal a lighter under-gown, and a high-collared neckline and floor-length sleeves. Her favorite gold belt hung around her hips, complementing the rich embroidery around the edges of the gown and inside the massive folds of the sleeves. The wreath woven by Éomer encircled her wrist as a reminder - to herself more than anything – of his goodwill. She wore no jewels around her throat or from her ears to combat the detail of her gown. However, a net of gold and sapphire jewels contained her braids, coiled and woven in a mass against the back of her head, and a matching circlet graced her forehead. These ornaments had belonged to Lothíriel's mother.

Lothíriel appraised herself carefully. Yes, she did look beautiful, womanly in spite of the gown's modesty. The bodice of her gown hugged her form perfectly, highlighting her slim waist and emphasizing the curves of her small breasts. The deep color illuminated her pale skin, deepening the contrast between light and dark in her skin and hair. In spite of her protest, the women had dabbed the barest touch of rouge upon her lips and cheekbones, and Lothíriel had to admit that the redness softened any severity present in her strong features. The color became her, added a semblance of good cheer and health that she did not feel. In spite of it all, her mouth was tense and drawn, giving away her inner feelings.

"Thank you," she said to her companions, granting them a small smile in the mirror. "You have done me well."

She turned to Éowyn. "Will your brother be pleased with his new wife?" She laughed rather manically.

Éowyn took her hands and squeezed them, ignoring Lothíriel's unsettledness. "He will, I know it." She smiled warmly.

"It is time," Brithwyn said softly. "Your father is here. Are you ready, my lady?"

Lothíriel closed her eyes briefly and set her jaw. "Yes."

Imrahil was waiting outside the door, hands behind his back and head bowed. He looked up when his daughter came through, and his eyes filled with tears as he looked at her, his expression very strange. "My daughter."

"Ada," she said with feeling. "Oh, father."

The old prince held out his arms to her and she went to them gladly. "You look so much like your mother," he said in her ear. "Would that she could see this day."

Lothíriel drew back to look at his face, placing her palm against his cheek. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "She is here with us, Ada."

His eyes crinkled at the corners and he looked at her with sad warmth. "I know." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

Lothíriel nodded and placed her hand in the crook of her father's arm and they set off together, Éowyn, Brithwyn, and Isemay following at a respectful distance behind.

[A/N: Well, at least I update every six months or so. It's hard when I'm at school, there just isn't enough time to spend with these two characters to really move the story behind. But I always love it when my inbox is greeted by a review or a story alert add, in the midst of all my academic-related e-mails. Thank you all for your patience, and have a wonderful new year. Hopefully, I'll have the rest of the wedding up soon. ~GB]


	12. A Winter Wedding

**12. A Winter Wedding**

"Will you give your vows?" asked the King Aragorn so that the whole crowd could hear.

Lothíriel swallowed and raised her chin, letting her voice ring from her throat with all the sincerity and poise she could muster. "I will."

"Proceed, my lady."

"I, Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, daughter of Imrahil, descendant of Numenor, take thee, Éomer, as my husband and my king. I hereby swear upon all that I know and hold dear to leave behind the whims of my childhood and take on the mantle of wife and queen to you and to your beloved people. I vow to ever serve you and only you; to comfort you, protect you, cheer you, and love you as your queen and as your child-mother, the Valar willing. I give myself to you fully, Éomer King, from this moment lasting until the end of my days. "

Éomer's expression was strangely moved, and Lothíriel was heartened to see that she had spoken well. She had been frightened of getting tongue-tied, of forgetting her vows, of saying the wrong thing.

"Éomer King?"

The man cleared his throat. "I, Éomer, King of Rohan, son of Éomund, descendant of the house of Eorl, do take thee, Lothíriel, as my wife and queen. I welcome you as one of my own country and into my hearth and home that you might seek happiness here; I take you as my wife that I might be your one and only husband. I swear upon this very country that you will find me steadfast and true, honest and kind, and," here he cracked a quick smile that was so brief Lothíriel thought she had imagined it, "fierce in my gentleness and gentle in my fierceness. I vow to protect you, provide for you, and honor you not only as my wife but as my equal in life and during our rule. To you I give myself, Lothíriel, until our days run out."

Lothíriel could not look away from him throughout his speech, smiling when he did, spellbound by the beauty of his words. They were simple, straightforward, and honest, and she knew that he meant them as best as he could. As had she. She bowed her head in humble acceptance when he finished, then returned her gaze to his. He looked serious, regal, beautiful even, his braided hair glinting gold in the torchlight as he waited for Aragorn's next words.

The world for Lothíriel seemed to blur as Aragorn took her hand and placed it in Éomer's firm grasp and began to bind their hands together as was the custom in Rohan at wedding. She swayed slightly only to be steadied by Éomer's sudden squeeze, before the ribbon made any motion possible for their hands. "Look at me and only me," he whispered, his voice audible only to her. "You will be all right."

She set her jaw and fixed her gaze on his face until it came in to focus. Yes, it would be all right. She knew that now.

Aragorn took their joined hands and held them high above their heads as they turned to face the watching crowds. "I present these two persons to you now as wedded man and wife. May their union be blessed with love and prosperity; may their reign be blessed with uninterrupted peace."

There was a moment of silence as the crowd took in these words. Then they erupted into cheers. Lothíriel picked out her father at the front of the crowd. He was not cheering, although he was clapping, but the pride mixed with sorrow in his face said more to Lothíriel than any spoken show of congratulations. She met his gaze briefly and smiled at him in an attempt to let him know that this would be all right. Her need to comfort him made her forget her own misgivings.

Her father was flanked by her brothers, who stood in various states of solemnity. Elphir stood smiling a bit stiffly, in typical Elphirian fashion, but there was a genuine emotion there that she could detect even from a distance. She smiled in fondness at her eldest brother's inability to let himself show his true emotions. Next to him, Erchirion looked as if he was blinking back tears, and Lothíriel wanted to cry along with him. Her sensitive, romantic brother, always overprone to cry at any occasion, although he did his best to keep it secret.

Finally, her eyes fell upon Amrothos, her closest brother, in age and bond. When he caught her looking at him, he gave her a knowing look, then suddenly grinned at her with a cheeky wink. Lothíriel felt herself burst into sudden laughter, surprising herself. Her brother knew her too well. She would miss having him as a constant presence in her life.

Éomer was looking at her in curious bemusement, obviously taken aback by her display. He almost smiled at her, she thought, but something seemed to stop him, and he looked again out at the crowd.

* * *

Éomer watched his new wife as she, smiling, made conversation and accepted the steady stream of congratulations and blessings that passed by the high table. Many of the people who approached the new couple were timid and unsure of what to make of their new, dark-haired queen, but their well-wishings were sincere and their smiles were merry.

He had sensed that Lothíriel was afraid that she would not be accepted or liked by her new subjects. Éomer himself knew that for a ruler to be liked was not of chief importance, as long as one was respected and trusted. However, he was certain that Lothíriel need not fear being disliked, nor should she fear resentment, for while a few would grumble, for the most part Éomer believed his people could move on from the old prejudices. Many already had. Furthermore, from what he had seen of Lothíriel, she would have little trouble in winning the hearts of the people. She had been well loved by her people – he had seen it in Dol Amroth. The people had been devastated to let her go.

And he had also seen the reason for her people's love. She interacted with them with a natural dignity and grace that, while placing her in a position of leadership, was never overbearing. Beneath this ease was a fierce sense of caring – she would not have worried about what Rohan would think of her had she not deeply cared for them.

No, Éomer was certain that his wife would be a good queen, if they could learn to work together. His respect for her had grown each day since that conversation on the beach, in seeing her adapt to her new surroundings, in seeing the warmth with which she met with new people, in seeing the way she had befriended his sister, and in all his conversations with her. The way she had approached him in the stables with her midwinter gifts, the way she had let the biting comments of that horrible Lady Ivorwen slide off her back with grace, and now the regal way she had stood before him and given her wedding vows were vivid images that stuck in his mind like a burr under a saddle. What bothered him was not the respect she had garnered from him, but that all that he was learning about his new wife was igniting the growth of a certain affection, a fondness to which he did not quite know how to respond.

The sacrifice she had made was astounding, and he still did not know what it had been that changed her mind. Why had she done it? He hoped she did not regret her decision.

She looked nervous, he thought, as he watched her some more. Her plate lay nearly untouched, and her drink sat in the same fashion. He was not hungry either, he thought darkly. But this would not do. The more spirits within her, and soon, the better.

"My lord?"

Lothíriel was looking at him quizzically. Éomer started, realizing that he had been staring. He colored. "You are not drinking your wine," he said bluntly, too bluntly perhaps. "Would you prefer something else?"

She shook her head and lifted the goblet to her mouth, her eyes curious. "This is fine." The wine barely touched her lips, however, before she set the goblet down again.

"It might be a good idea," he said low in her ear, then turned to study the golden hall as if the exchange had not occurerd.

Lothíriel snapped her head to look at him, her smile still on her face but a glimmer in her eyes that surprised him. "Why do you care whether or not I drink it or not?"

He met her eyes pointedly. "You seem on edge, Lothíriel. But it is nothing that a bit of wine will not cure."

She stared at him as if trying to read the emotion behind his eyes, then shrugged. "Fine," she said, reaching for her goblet and taking a generous sip. He could tell that it was headier than she had expected, and that it burned on the way down, but she carried it off well.

He nodded and looked straight ahead once more. "There. You seem much better."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell that Lothíriel was about to make a retort, but just then the musicians struck up a few chords. Custom deemed the first dance of the evening theirs.

"Come, Lothíriel, finish your wine. It is time for us to dance," he said. She nodded, her eyes fixed ahead of her, took another drink, and placed her hand in his.

* * *

As Éomer took her hand and led her to the middle of the hall to a roar of applause, Lothíriel thanked the Valar that Éowyn had taken it upon herself to teach Lothíriel the wedding dance in the last week, rehearsing it over and over until her body could remember the steps, even if her mind was a blur.

The couple faced each other and bowed and curtsied to one another in turn, then placed their right hands together, palms flat, to walk a circle around each other, then switched hands and direction. The music was slow, and lilting, carrying the couple through turns and rises and falls; it was a lover's dance by nature, and Lothíriel felt herself get caught up in its charm, an ache in her heart. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to call to mind some other person, some phantom lover she had never had, but try as she might, there was only Éomer, strongly present, her awareness of him coursing throughout her body and mind as he led her through the dance. She felt her cheeks grow hot as Éomer's hand caught her hip to turn her beneath his arm. The nearness of him was a reminder of the night to come. Wondering if Éomer had felt the same ache in his heart and was imagining dancing with someone else, that specific someone he had lost, she looked up at him only to catch his gaze on her. Their eyes held for an intense moment before the movement forced their gaze apart, and she was caught up in the music once again, as it quickened and grew in a flurry of melody before drawing to a quick, haunting close. It ended with her in his arms, her back against his chest. She could feel the intimacy of the moment burn across her cheeks, and was thankful but strangely mournful at the separation as they drew away from one another to the loud cheers of the room.

Éowyn watched her brother lead his new wife through the wedding dance with interest. She noted the way Lothíriel's queenly smile faltered as she met Éomer's gaze, her eyes wide, and the way her brother seemed unable to look away. His grasp on the woman's hand had seemed almost too firm as he led her out onto the floor. Éowyn grinned privately to herself. Well, this was a new development, but hardly a surprise.

Faramir came up beside her, nudging her with his elbow, as he too fixed knowing eyes on the dancing couple. "They do make a handsome pair, don't they?" he murmured so that only she could hear him.

Éowyn murmured acknowledgement. "Too handsome for their own good."

"Indeed?" Faramir chuckled. "Or perhaps it will end up to be exactly for their own good, in the end." He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised pointedly.

Éowyn shrugged archly, feeling herself flush with pleasure as she always did under his gaze. "Perhaps."

"I do not believe my cousin when she says there is nothing between them," Faramir said, his voice low in her ear. He lightly traced his hand along her spine between her shoulder blades.

Éowyn shivered with pleaure at the intimate touch but remained composed. "No?"

"There is too much obvious tension between these dancers for nothing to be there..."

Éowyn's mouth twitched and she had to struggle to maintain composure, although it probably would hardly have mattered if she could not. She turned and looked up at her betrothed. He met her eyes warmly, a mischievous smile in the corners of his own as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, lacing his fingers through her own.

"I envy them," he said. "They do not have to wait four more long months to do something about it."

* * *

"You seem tired," Éomer told Lothíriel as they sat watched the wedding guests dance. He was apt in his observations. The celebrations would continue in good cheer long into the night, the dancing and the drinking reaching new heights, but for Lothíriel it had been a long and tiring day. But she did not want to admit her fatigue, for to retire from the celebration meant to go with Éomer to his bed.

"I am not so very tired," she said, but a yawn betrayed her. Éomer looked at her skeptically, but said nothing. "All right," Lothíriel said after a moment, embarrassed at her poor efforts to hide the truth. "But let us stay until this dance is finished. I want to keep watching my family for a few moments. Even my father is dancing. And Faramir and Éowyn."

"I see them. My sister looks radiant. And your father dances well," Éomer replied.

Lothíriel nodded in agreement, thoughtful. "I have rarely seen him dance since my mother died. I am glad that on this occasion he is so joyful. That everyone is able to be joyful together on this day, Gondor and Rohan together."

"He is losing a daughter," Éomer said. "I know there has been a good deal of sadness for him on this day. But I think our union also symbolizes hope for many, Lothíriel, another marker on these new days of peace and rebirth."

Listening to these words, Lothíriel found it in herself to smile, albeit sadly. "I think that must be so."

"But this is more a day of sadness for you, isn't it, my lady?" Éomer said perceptively, the "my lady" rather tender. "You are leaving behind a good many things."

She paused and composed herself, then spoke firmly. "I leave nothing."

Éomer did not reply as if falling into deep thought beside her. She watched the dancers weave in and out of one another, her eyes blurring with emotion until she could only discern shapes and colors. She felt as if she were coming to a chasm that she knew was too wide to cross, but to cross it she must.

As the music died and the dancers and observers clapped, Lothíriel cleared her throat softly. "All right, my lord," she said, placing her hand in his yet again. "Let us bid our leave."

The couple rose, and the faces of the crowd almost immediately turned towards them. Éomer led her down from the high table and raised his hand. The dancing paused.

"My good people. I humbly thank you all for celebrating our union alongside us tonight. Your new queen and I go now to bed, but may you continue in your merriment until dawn, if you wish."

"And may you continue in yours, my King!" cried a man, raising his mug of ale in a very drunken toast. A tide of laughter arose and others began to throw in their own merry and suggestive comments.

Lothíriel felt her cheeks grow hot and she lowered her gaze, embarrassment surely evident in her smile. Beside her, Éomer's smile looked pained as he raised his hand in acceptance of their well-wishing and led her through the parting crowd. His grip was firm around her hand and his step swift. Lothíriel followed blindly, unable to close her ears to the remarks around her. She knew it was custom, and they did not bother her as disrespectful, but she took them as ironic. As if this night could be merry for Éomer and herself. She felt as if she were the Halfling walking into the Mountain of Fire. Beside her, Éomer looked as if he felt the same.

* * *

[A/N: Well, I predicted 6 months, didn't I? Muahaahah. You guys are great for being so excited about this story and for waiting so patiently for an update! Thanks for your faith in me! I hope this doesn't disappoint, and I promise the next installment shall be quite soon, as summer is around the corner! Love, GB]


	13. A New Kind of Knowing

13. A New Kind of Knowing

As arranged, Brithwyn was waiting to help Lothíriel change for bed when Éomer escorted her to her old rooms. Brithwyn would then accompany her to Éomer's bedchamber, which would now be hers as well.

Lothíriel had requested Brithwyn's aid, knowing that she did not want Isemay's excited chatter on this night. She knew Brithwyn would keep her peace and say only tactful things, if speak at all.

Indeed, Brithwyn said very little until Lothíriel sat to take down her hair from its arrangement and braid it for the night.

"My lady," she said in her soft but firm voice, stopping Lothíriel's hands. "You should leave your hair loose."

"Brithwyn, if I do not, it will tangle..." Lothíriel said, distressed.

"Of course, my lady," Brithwyn said quickly, letting go.

Lothíriel sat for a moment and stared at Brithwyn in the mirror. "Why do you suggest I leave it down?"

Brithwyn smiled wryly. "I may know little of the world beyond looms and cloth and a needle and thread, but I do know something of men, my lady."

Lothíriel blushed. "Oh." She considered this. "All right, then."

"Now let me comb it out for you, my lady." Brithwyn gently took the comb from Lothíriel's hands. "Try to breathe a little," she said kindly.

As Brithwyn lifted her hand to begin working through Lothíriel's hair, her sleeve fell away to reveal a woven bracelet that looked very similar to the one that Éomer had given Lothíriel. Was this Éothain's handiwork? Lothíriel wondered, curious and surprised. She had thought Brithwyn had not wanted to wear the gift, that her friendship with Éothain was not on good terms.

However, this was not the time to ask. Brithwyn saw her mistress looking at the bracelet and pulled the sleeve down to cover it, her face impassive. Lothíriel looked away as if she had noticed nothing, her thoughts returning in a flood to the night that lay before her. She trembled slightly.

Brithwyn furrowed her brow. "My lady, are you nervous?"

Lothíriel nodded, trying to smile but failing miserably. She looked down. "Éomer and I are not..."

"You are an arranged match," Brithwyn said, surprisingly blunt for her customary soft-spokenness. "I know."

"I do not want to go to bed with him." Lothíriel stood sadly, straightening her dressing gown and fastening the clasp. At least, not like this, she thought. Perhaps under different circumstances, she might have wanted to.

"Not even a little?" the seamstress asked, her hands on her hips. "He is not unhandsome, and there are worse fates for a woman in an arranged marriage, are there not?" she asked.

"I suppose you are right," Lothíriel said thoughtfully.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I predict you might find that there is something to be had with the king, if all goes well."

Brithwyn smiled gently, smoothing Lothiriel's hair back with her hand and looking into her eyes with an expression that changed her slightly drawn and unhappy face into a thing of soft beauty. Lothíriel thought briefly that even though Brithwyn was only a few years older, she possessed all the instinctive gestures of a mother. A shame she had had no children with her late husband.

How Lothíriel wished her own mother could be here.

"I understand your apprehension very well," Brithwyn continued. "Let him take the lead. He will know what to do. When it comes to the act itself, it will hurt less at first if you relax your body. It will likely only be painful for a few moments."

Brithwyn looked her over and nodded in approval. She took Lothíriel's hands and squeezed them. "You look very beautiful. You have that in your power, if nothing else. Are you ready?"

Lothíriel nodded, squeezing Brithwyn's hands in return, incredibly greatful for the advice. She steeled herself and squared her shoulders. "Yes."

The walk to Éomer's bedchamber was short, and all too soon they arrived at the door. "Thank you," Lothíriel said sincerely, turning to her companion. "You have been such a comfort to me today, Brithwyn."

Brithwyn gave her a tiny smile and bowed her head. "I am glad I could be of help, my lady."

Lothíriel took a breath and raised her hand to knock on the door.

* * *

Éomer looked up at the knock from where he sat on his bed, head in his hands. He stood quickly. "Come in."

The door opened and Lothíriel entered, clad in a deep red dressing gown over her nightgown. "My lord," she said, closing the door behind her and turning to face him.

"My lady," he said, at a sudden loss. "Lothíriel Queen, I believe you are now to be called," he added with a half smile, the best he could muster.

She returned the gesture half-heartedly. "Second only to Éomer King," she said, looking around at the room, eyeing with curious approval the soft golden bedfurs that were piled on his bed. "You have nice taste in furnishing, my lord," she said as if searching for words to fill the silence. "Simplicity suits you."

"I am glad you approve," Éomer said. "Much of this was already here, but I have added a few things to replace the old."

She ran her hand over the small black stone horse figurine that stood in a carved out notch in the wall. "Is this Firefoot?"

Éomer smiled. "A gift from an old friend. Perhaps," he said after a pause, "We will have to find one that resembles your grey mare."

"Faervaren," murmured Lothíriel. She looked slightly pleased. "I would like that very much." She smiled at him, and Éomer found himself more at ease.

"Would you like anything? Some more wine?"

"You and your wine," Lothíriel responded, sounding suddenly amused. "I have had enough for tonight, thank you. I do not need anything."

Éomer shrugged in defeat. "All right then."

Lothíriel looked at him tentatively. "How do you fare, my lord?"

"Well, I suppose. It has been a long day," he said. "And you?"

She sighed. "As if a hurricane had swept over me, I am exhausted and overwhelmed."

Éomer thought this was an apt way of putting it. "A good deal has happened."

"Have the last few months have been a dream? This does not seem real," she murmured after a moment. "Will I wake tomorrow in my bed in Dol Amroth to the cry of the gulls and the sound of the sea?"

"If you were able to wake up and find this all a dream, would you?" Éomer asked, his hands clasped behind his back as he went to stand beside her and gaze into the fire. He asked the same question of himself as he did her.

She let out a heavy sigh. "I hardly know."

Éomer considered this response. "Lothíriel," he began cautiously. "There is still one step to be taken before our pact is sealed and there is no going back." He hoped that she understood his meaning.

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes flashing a question. "There already is no going back."

He bowed his head in surrender, resigned. "Then are you prepared?"

She seemed to gather herself as she turned to face him, and when she looked up at him, he was struck by the solemnity in her expression. "I am ready."

At this, Éomer took her hand gently and led her to the bed. He stopped beside it, turning her to face him. "Then may I?" he asked, reaching for the fastening of her burgundy robe with hesitation, and also curiosity.

She looked from his face to his hand and back again, and nodded to give her consent. "You may."

As he undid the clasp and slid the robe from her shoulders, his hands shook slightly, and he could tell that she noticed, for her hands went to his aid. A shiver ran down his spine as her hands covered his own.

"Do you find this as strange as I do?" he asked, pausing with the robe half-on her shoulders, revealing the bright white of her nightdress. He could not help but notice that though the cut of the simple shift was modest, the curves of her breasts were very apparent through the fabric. He forced his eyes away quickly and looked into her face. She nodded, her eyes inquiring. He could still sense her trembling, but had he not been privy to know that this was out of nerves, she could have been cold.

"I do," Lothíriel said finally "I confess I do not know what to expect from you. However, I must share your bed tonight and hereafter. I am willing. I must be, my lord."

"You need not be," he said quickly. "Not tonight, if you are not ready. I will not touch you if that is your wish, not until you give your consent. I have no desire to force myself on a woman who is unwilling."

She sighed. "I have given my consent, in wedding you." She looked away, as if to hide a sudden rush of emotion. "Forgive me, but I do not think that if we were to wait this act would seem any easier. And if we were to wait, there would be talk. I cannot bring that upon your reign."

Éomer threw his hands in the air, suddenly furious for no reason at all. "If proof is so desired, it would be very easy to leave a few drops of blood on the sheets."

Lothíriel looked shocked at his outburst. "My lord, there is no reason to get angry." There was a lengthy pause as Éomer bowed his head and fought control of himself.

"But what about you?" Lothíriel asked him once he had gained it. "I imagine that it must be hard for you, to bed a woman you do not love when your heart remains with another."

Éomer felt his face grow hot, afraid she had misjudged him. As if he had lived a celibate life since the death of... He shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again, unable to answer. "I am concerned for the pair of us," he evaded finally.

She looked at him and stood up again to peer into his face. "Éomer, we have become friends, haven't we?" She tentatively reached up to touch his brow. He closed his eyes at the effect this simple gesture had on him. Her delivery was hesitant as she continued, "I would have you be honest with me, as my husband, but also as my friend. If we are to live as man and wife – I would not be unhappy if we could speak freely to one another, as we have always done up to this point."

Éomer nodded. "I think that is wise," he replied, taking control of himself again.

Lothíriel gave him a half-smile and wrapped her arms around her waist protectively. "I will start. I came to you tonight shaking from head to foot. I do not know how this part of our marriage will be, or what it could ever become. I cannot imagine acting as lovers do without loving first. But then again, I have never known a man."

Éomer watched a tear trickle down her face before she flicked it away. Her words were sobering, and he sat on the bed, his head bowed. He hated that he had to be her first.

"You are right in supposing that lovemaking is best when it is with one you truly love above life itself," he began haltingly. "But I can tell you that it can have its merits outside of love as well, if you so choose to explore it."

"Have you had a lot of experience with that kind of merit?" Lothíriel asked, a half smile crossing her face. The light that came with it changed her countenace completely, he noticed.

"With all levels of attraction," he said, returning the smile and surprising himself. "With the throes of young infatuation to the dalliance of new lovers to the height of that belonging to seasoned lovers, to the," he paused for a moment, searching for the words that had evaded him. "To the joining of two lonely strangers searching for solace in the unbearable, bitter night."

She nodded in understanding. "That part was after Breya," she said softly.

"Yes," he said, trying to ignore the pang the mention of that name inflicted on his heart. "That part has been sometimes dark and sometimes bittersweet, but yes, it has its merit, like all the rest. In the end, all these encounters are fleeting," he said, hoping she could somehow understand. "All are a part of life, I think."

She sighed, coming to sit next to him on the bed as if defeated. "I fear I will only ever know but one type," she said quickly, a hurried confession.

"One type of what?" he asked, not understanding immediately. She shook her head and did not look at him or respond. Then he understood.

"Lothíriel, look at me," he said, forgetting his earlier misgivings. "Look at me, please."

She finally did, her eyes glinting in the firelight. "Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Lothíriel, I wish with all my heart that I did not have to be your first. You are right. You should have had the chance to love someone fully before coming to my bed." He sighed. "For that I am sorry. I cannot give you that."

Lothíriel looked away again and drew in a shaky breath as if fighting back tears.

Éomer felt his heart break for her and realized that what he had to assure her of was a possibility of enjoyment. He had not been sure whether it would be better to try to romance her or just proceed in a businesslike manner and get it over with. Surely she expected the latter, but surely she could not truly want it. To tell the truth, neither did he.

"Lothíriel, still I will do what I can to make you enjoy tonight, if you will it," he said. "I have no desire to distress you or hurt you in any way, nor do I desire a lifeless marriage bed."

She turned to him in surprise. "I did not expect – "

"I know," he said quickly. "I know. I did not know how to broach the subject."

Her eyes looked confused. "I see." She took a breath and straightened her spine to meet his gaze head on. "You will be gentle? I hear there may be some pain at first."

He nodded. "I will be."

"Then tell me, how do we begin?" There might have been a wry smile hiding behind these words.

He took a breath. Indeed, how did they begin? "No matter what the relationship between two people, this act always starts the same way," he found himself saying.

"How?" she asked softly. She did not seem frightened anymore, only curious. He shrugged, knowing he had backed himself into a corner – he had to move forward with this.

"With touch," he said. "A brush of the hands, a bump of the hip, the brief meeting of bodies, or lips..." He instinctively brushed a stray lock of her hair back from her face, catching a whiff of lavender as he did so. She closed her eyes as he slid his hand to cup her cheek, trembling at the softness of her skin. It had an effect on him, stirring a longing ache deep within him that he had not quite expected to feel with her. He swallowed. To tell the truth, he was also quite petrified at the realization that he truly wanted her in his bed tonight, at the tightening between his legs that grew harder to ignore. He wanted to lose himself in her softness, and explore the intricacies of her body. Would she let him? Would she let her body respond?

* * *

Lothíriel lowered her gaze at the expression that passed over Éomer's face, suddenly shy and awkward. She felt as if the wine had finally taken over her senses, casting her in a warm, fuzzy glow. "Éomer..."

"What is it?"

"First tell me this: are you thinking of someone else even as we sit here?" she asked. At his questioning look, she added, "I just... I would like to know."

Éomer sighed. "Do we truly need to speak of such things?"

Lothíriel shook her head, seeing that he did not want to reply, but felt as if she knew the answer. Of course he did. He wished it with all his heart that it was not she, Lothíriel, in his bed tonight, but his dead lover of years ago. She did not need to hear it in words. She had married him knowing he would always belong to another.

Inexplicably, however, it still hurt to realize that he could not, it seemed, look at her without thinking of that other woman he had loved a lifetime ago, and yet would be unable to bestow upon her that same affection. Why? It was not a surprise, and yet the realization stung her all the same. It was not fair that she should have to face this fate of ever being the wrong woman in his life, and of always being the reminder of that very truth.

And why should she care? She did not love him. Oh, she found in him a friend – she could not deny it. But she had never suspected to want him.

And yet... when he had danced with her that evening and held her against him, when he had cupped her face in his hands, when he had draped his own cloak around her shoulders all those weeks ago and in doing so caught her between his arms so close to his body that her breath had quickened... all these moments had instigated a tingling ache low in her belly and a fluttering in her chest.

So she perhaps had a chance at pleasure in this marriage. He seemed to want her body, at least, and she admitted to herself that she wanted to explore his – an area of the world so unknown to her in that way.

"Lothíriel?" Éomer asked after a time. He caught her chin in his hand and gently nudged her head to face him. He looked apologetic but also determined. "I fear if we wait any longer..."

She laughed nervously. "We would never move forward."

He nodded. "Will you have me?" He took her hand and stroked the top of it with his thumb.

A sort of tug at the pit of her stomach surprised her. She swallowed, suddenly filled with a wanting that she hadn't before experienced. "Yes, Éomer."

Wordlessly, he cupped her face in his hands and leanned in to kiss her softly on the mouth, then again, and again. She received these first few kisses passively, astonished at the sudden sweetness that flowed through her at the touch of his lips – a feeling that had begun to course through her when they had danced together. She felt his hand reach up to caress her cheek, her ear, her throat, then passed under her hair to cradle the nape of her neck as he sealed their lips together in another, more insistent kiss. His other hand slid around her and he laid her down gently, moving them both onto the bed.

Warmth. With a thrill of surprise, she found she enjoyed the sensation of Éomer's hard, strong and solid body close against her own and found herself returning his kisses with equal fervor. His lips were firm and soft and coaxing, and she thought vaguely that this was what others whispered about behind closed doors. But this was not the way it should be between her and Éomer, should it? Should she want their marriage bed to be pleasurable?

Perhaps she did want it this way, and could forget at least for a moment the other presence in their relationship. She could not deny her attraction to him, she thought muddily as he pressed more of his body against hers, his knee slipping between her thighs and urging them gently apart, his hand traveling down her throat and over the planes and curves of her torso to ease up her nightgown over her hips. His touch was newly urgent, causing her to shake with mingling nerves and pleasure. So this was lovemaking. And Éomer... he was her husband and this pleasure was their right, even if their circumstances seemed to threaten iti. And was this not better than the alternative? Confused but compliant, she gave up thinking and allowed herself to receive Éomer's unfamiliar and pleasing touch with shy anticipation.

* * *

Later, Éomer lay awake in fitful contemplation of the sleeping woman beside him. She was in every way his wife now, at least in technicality, and he could not help but feel that something had passed between them that made it seem rather official.

He could not fall asleep, lying there so gingerly. This was not because he was uncomfortable having Lothiriel there in bed next to him, but that he did not want to disturb the sleep that had taken so long to claim her.

Éomer sighed. Her very presence earlier this evening had unnerved him. Éomer certainly had encountered women in his life who understood this need – a good number of them widows – women who appreciated his callused hands and the breadth of his shoulders. Some of them had even become his friends, comfortable companions that for the barest moment, in his darkest need, he could let himself lean on – though these moments had been few and far between.

But Lothiriel was somehow different from these other women – younger, a virgin of course, but different in other ways as well. He could not deny to himself that he had begun to care for her and that, though he could try to separate his feelings from his actions when with her, his efforts would always be in vain. She was not the same as a one night dalliance free of attachment to him, however much he might wish it. She was neither a lover nor a friendly bedfellow to him, neither a strong heady passion as Breya had been or a kind, detached solace. What was she? He did not know.

All he knew was that he had a strong attraction to her as a woman and that he felt tied to her in a way that frightened him. Indeed, he was responsible for her happiness now, he thought sadly. And what a jest that was. He could not even manage his own, which was fleeting at best.

He thought of how she – Lothiriel – had looked earlier, her wide eyes feral in the flickering firelight, and her lower lip caught by her teeth in uncertainty, unconscious of the fact that her chemise was falling off her slender white shoulder. She was beautiful, and this beauty affected him in a strange way, but it also threw him off by how different she was from what he was used to. Women in Rohan were colored so differently, shaped differently – Breya, for one, had been tanned and golden with a very curvy, well-rounded figure in contrast to Lothiriel's pale skin, dark hair, and slender frame.

And yet, both had a certain kind of fragility to them, present in the way they moved, the way they spoke with their eyes, the way they felt in his arms, a fragility that was both alike and different at the same time. The reminder of the past that he saw in Lothíriel made him ache. And the surprising way he had responded to to the feel of her beneath him had frightened him. Earlier, Éomer had done his best to put these thoughts out of his mind, but now, lying there in the dark, there was no distraction.

It had been all right, with Lothíriel. She had not resisted him. She had responded to his touch and yielded to him, although she was at times shy and uncertain and did not always know what to do. A certain clumsiness was to be expected, however, and he had enjoyed her body and wondered if she had felt the same. He suspected that from the way she had pressed up against him and returned his kisses with intensity that she had, at least in part, although she had whimpered a bit in pain when he had first claimed her fully, to his dismay. Still, they could have been any other man and woman for a moment there, free of other bonds and sorrows.

They had then fallen into silence, lying stiffly on opposite sides of the bed, slowly growing accustomed to the sound of the other's breathing. The space between them was a stark contrast to the way their bodies had melded together moments before, but both had felt suddenly shy and vulnerable upon separation.

Éomer raised himself up on one elbow and studied Lothiriel in the darkness. At some point in the last hour or so, she had rolled to face him. Her dark eyebrows, a striking contrast against her moon-pale skin, were furrowed slightly, and a lock of hair had fallen across her face, almost concealing her mouth. It rose and fell with each breath.

He felt a sense of quiet tenderness rising up from somewhere within him that he barely processed as he reached out and lifted the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear. His fingertips traced the soft, downturned bow of her lips and then lingered on the curve of her cheekbone In her sleep, she tilted her face up as if to better receive his touch. Her cheek briefly met his palm, when Éomer started out of his state of enchantment and withdrew his hand like a snake. Uncertain of what feelings had just passed through him, he rolled over and willed himself to fall into to sleep.

* * *

[A/N: I have about six different versions of this night floating around my computer/mind and it was a hard decision to get to this point. I cheated a little. It's a compilation of a couple ideas, but I think it's a rather lovely result. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Please keep doing so! I'm so thankful. xoxox, GB ]


	14. Reflections

**14. Reflection**

The next morning following the wedding, Lothíriel woke to find herself in the astonishing position of being nestled against Éomer's body. They had fallen asleep so separated that she wondered in a sleepy, warm state how she had gotten there. Her nightshift had twisted and slipped up around her hips, and she realized with a start that her bare skin was pressed up against his own. Suddenly embarrassed as reality set in, she gently eased herself away, hoping not to wake him, and he slept on, to Lothíriel's relief.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around foggily. What time was it? The air was very cold. The brazier that had warmed the room the night before had long been devoid of fire. Thinking that she had best remedy this, she forced herself out of bed, shivering as her feet touched the cold floor, and picked up her dressing gown from where it lay crumpled on the floor. Wrapping herself in it, she went to look around the room. Surely, there were tools to light the fire.

"What are you looking for?" Éomer's voice said from behind her, startling her from her search. She spun to face him. He was slowly sitting up, sleepy-eyed. The covers fell from his shoulders, revealing his bare chest and the light covering of curly blond hair that covered it and traveled in a line further down.

"Good morning," she said, self-conscious. She wrapped her robe tighter around her and searched for words. "I want to light a fire. The air is so cold, and no one has come to light it." She laughed a little.

"Let me," Éomer said, climbing out of bed and retrieving the necessary supplies from where they were propped aganst the wall in plain view in the far corner of the room. Lothíriel looked away quickly, blushing at the brief view of his half-naked body, the feel of which she now knew well but the sight of which in the clear light of day she was not yet accustomed.

"Crawl back into bed and get warm," Éomer said, interrupting her thoughts. She turned to him. "This cold is brutally severe and I will not have you catching a chill under my watch." Lothíriel was about to retort, not sure about what she thought of this ordering about, but Éomer looked at her apologetically. "Please. It will give me peace of mind."

Lothíriel obeyed him with a sigh, privately glad as the warmth of the covers, still warm from the heat of their bodies a moment before, settled in around her as she sat up in the bed. She watched shyly as Éomer lit the fire, the muscles in his back rippling as he went about it. "Did you sleep well?" she asked softly, tentatively trying to make conversation.

"Hmm?" he asked. There was a pause."Well enough."

A silence fell as a small warm blaze lit the room. Éomer stood and turned to face Lothíriel. "Better?"

"It will be," she replied gratefuly. "Thank you."

They fell into silence as the fire came to life. Éomer wandered back to the bed and got back in it. Neither spoke. Lothíriel gave up searching for something to remark upon to fill the quiet. What was the point? They would have to grow accustomed to the moments of silence in their daily lives together, for surely those would easily outnumber the moments of speaking.

She let her thoughts take over, leading her to recollections of the night before. The shyness, the awkward presence in the room, the confessions, the resignment, the halting touch... but also, there had been moments of warmth and tenderness there too. Lothíriel tentatively let herself remember the feel of Éomer's body moving against her in a manner far from unpleasant and the urgent tenderness of his kiss, then blushed, remembering that the same man was beside her now, staring into the fire.

She had been fortunate, she thought. The night had been far different from her dire expectations. She was fortunate to have a man who was gentle with her, who bothered to see that she was comfortable, and above that, tried to give her pleasure in spite of the circumstances of their relationship. A part from a burst of pain at first, sex had not been the nightmare she had feared it would be. Neither had it been the ecstasy that poets wrote about, but of course that was not for her. It had been somewhere in between and nothing extraordinary. She suppressed a hint of disappointment over the fact and smiled wryly at the way she suddenly felt far wiser than the day before.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Éomer had been looking at her curiously. She suppressed the urge to giggle and turned her head to look at him directly. "Husband?"

He looked taken aback at the sound of the word. After a pause, he replied in kind, "Wife."

Lothíriel shifted onto her side, propping her head up on her arm. With her free hand, she traced an invisible pattern on the sheets. "Do you think anyone will come to wake us?"

Éomer shook his head and answered matter-of-factly, "I imagine they expect us to sleep all day, if we wish. No one will disturb us unless we ask for it. It is not customary to disturb a newly wedding couple the morning after their wedding."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. "I assumed as much. It must be getting late."

Éomer looked at her. "You are not kept prisoner here. We may show ourselves to the world whenever we like."

"Ugh," Lothíriel said in response to that. "On second thought, I would rather not speak to anyone."

"And why is that?" Éomer's look was teetering on the edge of sudden amusement.

Lothíriel clapped her hand over her mouth. "I mean," she began, unsure of what to say and how to reveal her thoughts. "I think you know."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "Does it have something to do with secretive smiles and prying questions?"

"Everyone will want to know if our night was a pleasant one," Lothíriel said, deciding to give up efforts at pulling this conversation away from bluntness. "Whether they ask it or not, we will see it in their eyes."

Éomer lay down beside her, mimicking her position, and looked at her seriously. "Was it a pleasant night?"

Lothíriel blushed, avoiding his gaze. He tipped her chin up with his forefinger until she turned her gaze to him, and asked the same question again with his eyes. Put on the spot, Lothíriel finally gave something of a noncommittal nod. Though she could not bring herself to answer the question, Éomer let her go as if satisfied.

"Éomer," began Lothíriel quickly after a moment.

"Yes?"

"I desire to be a good and true wife to you," she said, drawing strength. "To give you children and help you rule your country, of course, but also to be a gentle and loyal companion, as best as I can."

He nodded as if considering something. "Do you desire this because it is your duty, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?"

Lothíreil was brought with a start back to a very heated and memorable conversation on a window seat overlooking the sea. They had talked of duty then, to country and to kin, and of its inescapable hold on them both.

_"Duty! Duty is what they will use to convince me to marry you, and it will be just as if I was forced into it, as it is for you."_

_"I should let it be known that I came here of my own accord, knowing that as a King I must have a Queen... I have no desire to make you unhappy..."_

Lothíriel looked back at Éomer and saw a glimmer in his eye that told her that he had this conversation in mind as well. She smiled a smile that came from wistful sadness as well as amusement.

"How far I have come since that day on the beach, Éomer," she said reflectively. "I scarcely knew my own heart when I agreed to marry you out of the blue."

"I will say you surprised me," Éomer admitted. "First so firmly unwilling and then insisting through a burst of tears that you could not refuse. I went to Imrahil that evening a very confused and repentent man for whatever it is I did to make you feel like you had to accept me, and I still do not know exactly what it is that changed your mind."

Lothíriel rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how to phrase her thoughts. In an instant, they began to flow, tenatively at first and then in a rush that she could scarcely stop.

"I saw that you were sacrificing your own desire for the needs of your people and," she paused, biting her lip at a pang that filled her at the memory of Éomer's face as he had told her of his past, "I thought all at once of how selfish I had been, how I have always been, except when duty has forced something out of me. How purposeless my life had been before and since the war, how without task or obligation or aspiration, except to live at home as I had always done, apart from my time spent helping with the wounded at Minas tirith, and to wait day by day for adventure, for romance... for some dream to come and take me from the dreaded monotony of it all."

Éomer was silent, taking in her words. Lothíriel laughed through the tears that were running silently down her cheeks.

"And there you were... an excuse to martyr myself in the name of duty, perhaps, an occupation for my thoughts and an excuse to finally give myself up to the inexplicable sadness that had been creeping into me in the months after the war."

"Lothíriel..." Éomer began, reaching out to her as if to comfort her or stop her. She shook her head and pressed her fingers to his lips.

"Let me finish. I have not ever managed to put this into words, even to myself," she said with a laugh. "I saw in you the escape I had so longed for, albeit in a very different form. I could pin my discontentment on my fear of wedding you and sacrificing my girlish dreams, I could escape my meaningless life... and the world would make me a heroine, if I could manage to become a good queen." She ran her fingers through her hair and turned her head to look at him.

He lay there patiently listening, his look neither judging nor shocked, but interested and rather tender. She took a tremulous breath, encouraged by this lack of judgement on his behalf to continue.

"So you see, Éomer," she said jestingly. "I am not quite the selfless, brave and dutiful woman whose image I have perhaps cultivated these past few months, but rather in many ways the same self-absorbed and restless child I have always been, albeit a little wiser and more self-aware."

Éomer was biting his lip as if in thought. "Lothíriel," he began, "I do not think you give yourself enough acclaim where it is due."

"No?" she asked lightly. "Perhaps." She rolled onto her side again and met his eyes. "There is one more thing that drew me to accept your proposal. Perhaps this redeems me a little." She smiled at him sadly and, boldened by her confession and by the intimacy of the night before, traced his cheek lightly with her fingers. "I saw that you – you and all you stood for, this country - needed me."

Éomer caught her hand in his own and squeezed it wordlessly before letting go, his face betraying a certain emotion that she could not name. She sighed. "So you see, Éomer, I want to be a good wife to you because this is the life I chose and I will not let it go to waste."

"Then I will help you as best I can," Éomer responded after a moment. "For in order to be a good wife you must have a good husband, don't you think? And tomorrow you will begin to rule. You and I must attend your first official council meeting as queen."

Lothíriel nodded, not in the least bit surprised at the news, although it caused a slight fluttering in her chest that she suppressed. She sat up and swung her legs out of bed, feeling relieved to have said all that she had said, as if a stone had been pressing into her chest but was now gone. "Shall we see about breakfast? I am starving."

* * *

[A/N: Thanks to you all, I broke 100 reviews on the last chapter. I'm so astonished to receive so much positive feedback on the story so far. I am currently refining the basic plotline and when I figure that out, more chapters will come! ~ xoxoxoxoxoxo, Girlbird]


	15. The Running of A Country

15. The Running of a Country

The next day at the council meeting, Éomer met with strong disagreement.

"A militant band of wildsmen has been spotted in the hills just west of the Isen," said the grey-haired Hereward, longtime man-at-arms of the late Théoden King. His eyebrows were drawn together.

"Have they attacked?" asked Éomer, unsurprised at the news. Beside him, he could sense Lothíriel tense up.

"Not as yet," answered Hereward, "But surely they intend to. The border patrols watch their every move and await your command, good King."

Éomer pondered this news. "Have they given sign that they intend to move east?" When Hereward shook his head after a brief pause, Éomer bowed his head. "I will not preeminently strike at them in this time of peace. Have them watched, but no action yet."

"My lord King – "

Éomer held up his hand. "I do not think the Dunlendings will benefit from an attack upon us at this time, good men. And ladies," he added, to Éowyn and Lothíriel.

"As if they give a care for their benefit," piped up Éothain. "They have waged war with us for hundreds of years and have always been trampled down, but they are consumed by vengeance for the events of long ago. Surely this time can be no different."

Éomer sighed. "Thank you, Éothain," he said a bit curtly to his friend and addressed the council as a whole. "But I have due cause to believe they will refrain from battle this time. I have received word from the King of Gondor that the Dunlendings have requested safe passage through Gondor to Minas tirith for two of their ambassadors. I believe they intend to treat with Gondor."

"With Gondor!" cried Aldhelm, another council man, his weathered face surprised and a bit incredulous. "Why Gondor?"

"I expect that to treat with Rohan would have seemed less desirable," said Éothain, his voice low. "They would certainly see the possibility of being allowed safe passage through Rohan as an unlikely one. Surely our history is far bloodier, though Gondor also is responsible for their displacement, and given the attitudes in this room towards the Dunlendings, perhaps they were wise to entreat with Gondor first."

Éomer smiled drily. Thank you, Éothain, for redeeming yourself, he said silently. I need your support.

"Good king, have the Dunlendings ever tried to treat with anyone? Have they ever shown allegiance to anyone?" Hereward asked.

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "Once, I think you will recall, a certain white wizard named Saruman offered them his support, playing upon their anger and acknowledging their plight, though it was for his own evil purposes."

Hereward bowed his head, momentarily cowed.

Éowyn raised her chin, already privy to Éomer's plans. "If they are indeed treating with Gondor, then surely they will not attack Rohan, Gondor's ally. Is that not what you have been implying, brother?"

Éomer nodded his head. "Precisely. But there is more."

"Would it not be prudent for Rohan to offer to treat with them as well in the same treaty - to join in with Gondor in negotiations?" asked Lothíriel, her first voice in the council. All heads turned to her, and Éomer noticed her swallow and steel herself. "Surely the sworn bond of three entities holds more weight and protection than if one hopes to maintain security with the other two through only one direct bond."

She looked at Éomer a bit helplessly. "Is that not so, my lord?"

Éomer smiled . "It is a possible solution."

"Do you intend to treat with these savages, Éomer King?" asked Hereward incredulously, his knuckles white as he grasped the table. "They have long inflicted great suffering upon our people. Under Saruman's hand, they burned our villages, raped and slaughtered our women and children and tore apart the countryside. Surely we cannot pretend that they will uphold their treaty."

Éomer felt himself grow hot with anger at this man's insufferable stubbornness, but knew he had to answer calmly. "Saruman manipulated them and played upon their anger to serve his own purposes. In a similar fashion, but for good, not ill, we will play upon their offer of peace. I will not continue to subject this land to the battering of the Dunlendings, nor shall Rohan continue to oppress them in the ways we have in the past. We must I seek to satisfy them and stave off more senseless violence. Together with Gondor, we will work with them towards a peaceful relationship. What say you to that, my lady Queen?" he asked, turning his attention to Lothíriel before Hereward had a chance to reply.

She smiled at him graciously and looked around at the men in the room, from face to face until she met Hereward's stern gaze. "I say that the King's word is good and wise, my friends, and that we should trust his judgment and work with him, not against him, in this matter."

Hereward squared his shoulders and bowed his head. "I say that they will betray us all, Lothíriel Queen," he said firmly. "Surely you can know little of these wildsmen and their true nature."

The man's tone was of carefully measured condescension, and Éomer clenched his fists in annoyance. He was pleased to see, however, that Lothíriel wavered only a moment before boring her eyes into the man's own and retorting,

"Perhaps not, but I know much of the nature of men, sir, for I have three brothers. All have basal traits in common. A desire for home and hearth after a day in the saddle. Though they might seek adventure and glory in their various ways, fighting injustice and avenging the honor of their loved ones, in the end they will curl up and cleave to those that offer a safe place to lay their heads and a moment of peace. If offended, they are easily appeased if one understands their true desire. Surely these "wildsmen" as you call them can be no different. One must seek to understand them."

"You truly have the heart of a woman, dear queen," said Hereward. Éomer put his hand on his dagger, and would have drawn it, had Éowyn not put a hand on his back and whispered that he watch himself.

"And you understand women better than I understand the wildsmen, surely," said Lothíriel with a smile that remained serene while the irony in her words came through enough to prick him. "I will not attempt to dispute it."

"Hereward," said Éothain, his voice betraying his annoyance. "Is there anything else you might like to add to your King and Queen while you tread on this dangerous ground?"

Hereward swallowed and bowed his head. "Only that Théoden King, rest his soul, would not have forgotten the honor of his country and treated with these men," he said.

Éothain stood and yanked Hereward to his feet, his face livid. "You have far overstepped your limits," he said fiercely. "Apologize to your King and to your Queen."

Éomer closed his eyes. When levelheaded Éothain acted like this, something had truly angered him. But Éomer himself was even more provoked and bothered by this man's distrust.

Hereward broke away from Éothain and knelt before Éomer, his head bowed. "Forgive me, my King. I was wrong to question your rule and for that I know I deserve to be punished."

Éomer bent to look into the man's face and gripped his tunic in his hands, his anger getting the best of him. "I am not Théoden King," he said through his teeth. "Remember that. Théoden would not have hesitated to banish you from Edoras." With that, he let the man go, roughly. "Council dismissed."

His blood racing, he stormed out of the Golden Hall and through the great doors to the world outside.

* * *

Left behind in the Golden Hall with Éowyn at her side and Éothain looking furious from his spot against the nearest pillar as the rest of the men dispersed – Hereward making a hasty exit, Lothíriel let out a great sigh.

"So that is how a country functions," she remarked, stunned.

"It is not how a country should function," Éowyn said. "A King needs the support of his men, especially a new King. Surely it is good to question a poor or hasty decision, but with measured words and a measure of respect. And Éomer's decision was founded on long and careful consideration. There was no grounds for such a blatant show of resistance, not on this matter."

"I would skin the man myself," replied Lothíriel. "I may have 'the heart of a woman', but I have the temper of a lioness."

"You did well against him, lady Queen," Éothain said bluntly. "You spoke cleverly and put him in his place without breaking a sweat."

"But I fear I have made an enemy so soon in my reign," fretted Lothíriel,

"Not an enemy," said Éowyn soothingly. "Hereward will come around. He was entirely loyal to my uncle despite my uncle's... flaws." She paused a moment. "I dearly loved Théoden, and believe that my uncle was a great King but even I must admit that he sometimes fell victim to his own arrogance and stubborn pride. Still, Hereward was always loyal to him and always served him well. He is an asset to have on one's side and I will tell Éomer so. He will have to redeem himself after today, but he will find a way I am sure. Do not fret, Lothíriel. You have proved yourself a worthy new queen and no one should find cause to disrespect you."

"Thank you." Lothíriel said, gratefully accepting Éowyn's assurance with a smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find the King."

Lothíriel found him out at in front of Meduseld, looking off into the mountains covered with snow. The sky was clear and the air was cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had thought to bring her cloak outside to ward off the chill.

"You did well in there," Éomer said, somehow aware of her presence behind him. Encouraged, she went to stand next to him.

"Are you all right, my lord?" she asked after a moment. "I can imagine that such resistance cannot be easy to face."

"They expect me to be my uncle or my cousin," said Éomer rather bitterly after a moment. "I am forever reminded that I am not the one who was meant to be King. Théodred was the one groomed for this life. He was more than ready, before he was slain."

"But you are ready yourself, my lord," Lothíriel replied, touched. "You are not your uncle nor are you your cousin. You are yourself, Éomer son of Éomund, a hero of battle and a worthy leader of men. You have every right in the world to the throne of this country and you will rule it with such grace as I know you to have."

Éomer looked at her then and shook his head. "What can you know, Lothíriel, of what I have?"

"As much as you have shown me." Lothíriel felt strongly inclined to stamp her foot. "You have treated me with such delicate kindness since I have come here. Even that would be enough. But now you have shown levelheaded consideration into this matter of the Dunlendings, and a merciful mind to their plight. Your forbearers would be proud of you."

Éomer's jaw tightened. "Am I making the right decision? I risk their betrayal, Lothíriel."

"Does one not always risk betrayal when one makes a treaty?" Lothíriel replied. "I know little of these matters but it seems logical. Surely it is better to risk their betrayal then betray your own alliance with Gondor, if Gondor does decide to treat with them."

"In truth, I will have no choice, if Gondor treats with them," Éomer said with a sigh.

"So you must preserve your honour and make the choice before it is forced upon you," Lothíriel told him after a moment, laying a hand on his arm. "I believe it is the right step towards the rebirth of this country and towards the peace for which we all long."

Éomer turned to look at her wordlessly and nodded. She wondered what his true thoughts were as he regarded her. Did he regret confiding in her?

"Thank you for your support of my decision, Lothíriel," he said. "It is important that we appear unified in public."

"Indeed," was Lothíriel's reply, "I hope that we can remain so truthfully as well."

He sighed. "It may not always be possible."

"I can foresee that," Lothíriel said. "You are quite firm in your opinions, you know."

He turned to face her. "In that, I think we are a pair." He regarded her for a moment, then brushed his fingers across her cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She swallowed, forced to meet his intent gaze. The move seemed unexpected, so understatedly tender, that it caught her off guard as such gestures of his always did. It was almost as if he did so unconsciously, not realizing what he was doing until he was in the process of doing so. Too often he would retreat, drawing away, as if the thought of showing such tenderness towards her in everyday life repelled him. But this gesture was not cut short. His fingers lingered on her cheekbone the barest whisper of a second longer than they might have as he studied her face. Then he dropped his hand and shook his hair out of his eyes. As quickly as the moment had come, the quicker it was gone.

"I must send a message to Aragorn," he said, clasping his hands behind his back a bit self-consciously, it seemed. "I should send a rider now. And what will you do?"

Lothíriel shrugged, recognizing the dismissal in his words. "I will leave you to it," she said, "And I must see my family. They are to leave soon, provided this clear weather holds."

As she turned to go, he caught her arm. "Lothíriel."

She tilted her head to look up at him, questioning. His brown eyes were warm and serious. "Truly, thank you," he said.

Lothíriel nodded in acceptance of his thanks, and he let her go. She could feel his gaze on her as the door guards opened the great doors to allow her passage and closed them behind her, hiding her from his sight.


	16. Chasms and Comfort

**16. Chasms and Comfort**

The nightmares came back at the end of January. Éomer awoke with a start the first time, breathing rapidly and not knowing where he was, until slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness and the walls of his chamber became recognizable. Slowly, timidly, he lifted his hand to his cheek. It came away wet with tears. He felt that his brow was damp with sweat. It had been a dream, just a dream, he told himself.

Then he remembered Lothíriel. His worst fear was that he would cry out in his troubled sleep, the way he knew he often did when he dreamt, and that she would hear him. It was not that he feared she would find him weak, but that this part of him was so ugly and private that he did not want her to see. He propped himself up on his arm and peered at the sleeping form next to him, firmly contained on her side of the bed the way she always was. She was breathing evenly, her face relaxed. She showed no sign of having woken.

He sighed in relief and lay back down, his thoughts returning to the dream – the same old one, of running helpless through fields, past piles and piles of the dead, seeing the faces of friends and loved ones staring up at him. He was always fixed on his path by some invisible force, unable to go to them, to touch them, to shake them awake. There was always a chasm ahead of him, where in the dream he knew what he would find there – although he always woke up before reaching it and could never remember what it was. He never wanted to go to whatever this chasm was, and would fight and struggle and weep as the dead reached up their imploring hands to him, but he was always unable to stop. A roaring, plunging sound would then fill his ears, like falling through deep water, and he would wake.

Éomer shuddered, trying to shake off the haunting fear that clung to him, but he was unable to do so. He stared at Lothíriel's hair, spread out across the pillow. It was close enough that he could smell it. Suddenly the warmth of her seemed very appealing. She was solid, tangible, soft – and he wanted to hold her. Just for a while. He could move away from her before she woke and she need not know.

Carefully, gingerly, he eased closer to her, enfolding her body with his own. He placed a hand protectively on her hip and melded his body to hers, praying he would not wake her. But it was in vain.

"Éomer?" she murmured sleepily, turning under his arm to face him. "What is it?"

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said quickly, feeling apologetic and vulnerable. His voice came out raw and raspy.

She looked at him in the darkness. "Are you all right? You are trembling."

"I had a... dream," he explained. "It is nothing. Go back to sleep."

"A bad dream?" she asked knowingly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was nothing new," said Éomer dissmissively. He did not want to talk about it with her. "The same as it always is. You should sleep, Lothíriel."

"No, no, now I am awake," she said. "If it would help to speak of it, I am listening. Talking helps me to sleep again if I have nightmares."

"My mother used to sing to me," Éomer said, smiling wryly at the memory. "When I was very small."

"Mine too. Did it help?"

He sighed. Had it? "I don't know. I think... it was soothing, even if I did not sleep."

"Well I am no great singer," Lothíriel said with a smile that flashed in the darkness. "But I could try."

"You do not have to," said Éomer quickly, touched.

"Nay, but I want to," she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. "I can tell you are in need of comfort. Is that not why you drew me close? Shhh," she said firmly, before he could say anything. "No need to speak of it."

Astonished, Éomer gave up protesting and sighed. "Sing for me, then, since you seem so intent on it," he said, but he found that his face was struggling to smile.

"See, I am helping already," she said, seeing the tiny bit of mirth there and touching his lips gently.

After a moment, she propped herself up on one arm and cleared her throat and begin to sing softly, timidly at first and then more readily. Her voice was untrained and a little rough, and her pitch not always true, but it was sweet and lilting and the song she chose was soothing. She sang in elvish and Éomer could only catch some of the words, but he gathered that it was a song of the sea. It was a song of longing for a lost love, for a sailor claimed by the sea, and it was so beautiful that Éomer found himself moved almost to tears, but it was a sweet sort of sadness, different from the anxious terror and grief let over from his dream. Lothíriel ran her hand over his damp hair as she sang, stroking the care from his brow and mind, sweetly caressing him, and when she finished the song, she curled up next to him and looked at him for a while.

"Did it help?" she finally asked, her voice small, and he nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Or have I made you sad?"

He nodded again. "But it is a good sorrow," he said simply. "Thank you."

She cupped his cheek. "I am glad if I could help, Éomer," she said, and planted a kiss on his brow. "Now try to get some sleep." Astonishingly, she raised his arm and moved under it, curling up against him and drawing him so that he cupped her body with his own, the way he had been about to hold her when she had awakened. Their bodies fit together so well, he thought a bit irrationally, and his hand just seemed to find her farthest breast and cup it just so, tenderly and intimately. She let out a sigh and snuggled into him, and Éomer let himself be drawn into her softness and away from the now-distant horror to which he had once been prisoner.

* * *

Still, Éomer's nightmares persisted. Lothíriel woke one night in February to a bitter chill in the room – the temperature had dropped again after a brief warmer spell and Lothíriel had somehow found her way out of the covers. Cursing the weather, she burrowed back into the warm blankets and bedfurs and wondered if it was only the cold that had roused her.

A sound from Éomer's side of the bed answered her question. Turning her head to look at him, she saw that her husband was dreaming, and that it was not a pleasant sort of dream. In the moonlight, his brow was drawn and his mouth carved into a deep frown.

_Oh, Éomer_. Lothíriel raised her head up on one arm and wondered whether to wake him. But when he began to call out in urgent, fragmented Rohirric, she could not bear to watch him suffer any longer. She knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and spoke his name. He woke up sobbing, calling out what sounded like names.

Shaken, Lothíriel cupped his face in her hands, looking down at him. "Shhhhh, shhhhh, my darling," she murmured, any reservation she might have held when addressing him forgotten. "You had another nightmare."

He gripped her arms with his own, too tightly, his eyes focusing on her face. He did not seem to recognize her. When he spoke, the name he uttered pierced her to the core. "Breya?"

"No, I'm sorry, it's Lothíriel," she stammered, strangely hurt. Underneath his touch, her forearms felt bruised. "Lothíriel. Your wife?"

"Lothíriel," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Lothíriel." He suddenly loosened his grip on her arms and Lothíriel snatched them away, wincing and rubbing her wrists.

"I hurt you?" he said, looking at her, his face half in darkness, half in moonlight. He was almost like a child for a moment there.

"Only a little. You were having a nightmare," she said uncertainly. "I did not know whether to wake you, but..."

As she spoke, she tried to look away from him, but he caught her face and drew her back to him. Astonished, she covered his hand with her own and met his haunted gaze.

"Lothíriel," he said again, entangling his hand in her hair and drawing her down to him – then her lips were upon his and his hands on her body, pressing, stroking, coaxing. Lothíriel felt the slow and delicate heat of desire begin to grow in the pit of her abdomen, such a desire as she had never felt before for him or any other. It seemed to come from her very soul. He was urgent, almost wild as he kissed her, but still gentle enough that she did not mind his passion, and indeed kissed him back with the same intensity. What was more, he was kissing her as if he needed her, and Lothíriel felt her heart quicken and warm towards him like it never had before. It was as if she was the only thing that could chase his darkness away.

"Éomer," she breathed, drawing back to look at him and catch her breath.

His breathing was also ragged as he looked up at her. "Is this all right?"

Lothíriel did not know, exactly, why it would not be all right, but she did know that what was started could not be left undone. "Yes, Éomer, yes," she said, stroking his hair and kissing him again.

"I need to – " Éomer said, breaking off.

She touched his cheek tenderly. "You need to what?"

"Forget," he managed, and Lothíriel nodded in understanding, tears filling her eyes.

"Oh, Éomer, I know," she said, and brought her lips down to taste the crook of his neck, the salt on his skin on her tongue. The gesture seemed as if it were the most natural thing in the world to her at that point. "Let me help you tonight."

Suddenly she was beneath him, Éomer kissing her deeply, pressing against her as if to meld her to him with the heat of his body. She returned the gesture with equal fervor, gasping with pleasure as his hands slid beneath her nightgown. Then, suddenly, he drew away.

"Please don't stop," she whispered, confused.

He shook his head, a flash of teeth in the darkness showing her that he was smiling. "May I look at you?" His fingers traced the neckline of her gown, running down over her breast and circling the nipple through the fabric. Lothíriel realized that though they had lain in the same bed for a month he had never seen her without clothing, always keeping her nightclothes on the few times he had drawn her to him. But tonight she wanted him to look on her, and she raised her arms shyly and let him ease her chemise up over her hips, her breasts and shoulders and finally over her head. He tossed the garment away and pulled his own minimal clothing off, and looked down at her a moment.

"Oh, Lothíriel," he said finally. "I have a beautiful wife."

Lothíriel felt her body flush with pleasure and embarrassment and need. She wanted him to stop gawking and take her in his arms again. She grabbed his hand and kissed the palm, pullling him back into bed. He obliged, burning her skin with the heat of his mouth. Lothíriel drew him inside her with a gasp, wrapping her legs around him as he began to move within her. She felt herself warming and opening up to him like metal warmed to a smith, eager and wanting.

Later, as she lay locked in Éomer's arms, listening to his breathing slow and deepen as he finaly drifted into a more peaceful sleep, Lothíriel felt something heavy and cold deep within her finally drop away; whatever the morning would bring, she felt that this night something she had been missing had been found.

* * *

[A/N: Just me or did things get heavy? Ahhhhh, tell me if I need to change the rating or something. More chapters up soon. Thank you for reading ~ GB]


	17. To Long For

17. To Long For

Éomer woke the next morning to find Lothíriel curled up against him, her head on his chest. He blinked a moment, surprised. Had he taken her into his arms again in the night? He looked down and realized that he felt her skin against him and that the reason for that was they were both naked, and that he was very aroused. Slowly, hazy snippets of the night before entered his mind – a hand shaking him awake, her face before him in the darkness, his hand pulling her down to kiss her. _Let me help you tonight._ The feel of her beneath him before he even registered what he had done. The sight of her naked in the sliver of light that shone in through the window. Her skin...

Uncomfortable, Éomer lay still as not to wake the woman in his arms, trying to wrap his mind around what had happened. Lothíriel had once again granted him release from the terrors of the night, but this time in a newer and even more intimate way. He had used her, he thought, disturbed, and she, ever dutiful, had complied. He was not exactly surprised at his own actions to her, for he knew himself well enough to know that surely he would have done the same with any woman to escape the terrors, but he was surprised at how easily and readily she had succumbed to him. Would she hate him when she woke?

He peeked down at her just as she stirred and rolled away from him in sleep. He raised his head on his arm, feeling strangely alone after the sudden separation, and took time to look at her. Her bare shoulders were slender and her hair was mussed and a lock half-covered her face. He could tell, however, that her cheeks were rather flushed and when she shifted onto her back moments later, he saw that she looked thoroughly content. Perhaps she would not hate him, at least not this time.

Against his will, Éomer found himself reaching out for her, wanting to take her in his arms again, rouse her with a kiss, but he brought his hand back again, disturbed by the nature of these desires. He swung his legs out of bed and stood, pulling the nearest pair of breeches he could find. Tiptoeing to the window as to not wake Lothíriel, he slipped a shirt over his head and looked out at the sun that reflected off a fresh blanket of snow. He would go riding, he decided, and escape this dangerous room. It would give him time to think, time he sorely needed. Perhaps he could sneak off before someone tried to rope him into kingly duties or insist on providing him with an escort – he had never needed one before in far more dangerous times, and now that orcs no longer swarmed the hills, he was certain that he did not need one now, so the very idea was ridiculous. He would sneak off quickly, or if he had to, order the first prying person he saw on a wild goose chase, he thought with a grimace as he went to grab his riding gear.

* * *

Lothíriel awoke to an empty bed, its other occupant nowhere to be found. She lay there a moment in bittersweet remembrance of the night before, wondering what Éomer had thought when he awoke, and why he had fled the scene so quickly upon waking, for surely he did not have any duties to attend to so early, and where he had gone. He had been halfway in a dream world; did he even remember the night before? Surely he must have some memory of it, she told herself, or could gather enough information to at least inform him of what had passed between them.

A part of her mourned his absence. A part of her was relieved she did not have to face him, but it was a very small part. She wondered if he was avoiding facing her, perhaps disturbed by their unexpected intimacy, and if they would return to their old ways. Last night, she had felt almost complete, but for the reminder that she was the wrong woman, when Éomer had called her by the wrong name, but now the happiness she had felt as she had drifted into sleep had almost faded, leaving her empty and uncertain.

With a sigh, Lothíriel hauled herself out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing gown and went to sit by the fire. Isemay knocked on the door and came in with bread and honey so that Lothíriel could break her fast, chattering away as she did so, and Lothíriel nodded and murmured responses when appropriate, but she was rather relieved when the girl went into the other room to prepare her a bath, leaving her mostly alone with her thoughts.

Had she come to love him in these few short weeks? Her heart hurt for him when she saw his enduring sorrow, but it had always done, ever since that fateful day on the beach, and she knew enough not to confuse sympathy for love. She desired him, yes, but love or no, she was a woman and he was a man. He had proved a good lover in spite of their mutual initial reservations, though she had no other experience with which to compare him and wished she knew more about pleasing him. He had always showed her respect and tenderness, providing for her daily needs, and, what touched her most, he had allowed her to rule alongside him, not underneath him. They had found a way to laugh together too, especially in these last few days. He had shown her enough of his heart for her to know him for a loyal, deep-feeling, sensitive but guarded man who possessed the courage to endure even through strife and sorrow. She knew his love for his people – a love which she was learning to share – and she knew his love for his family and friends. He had a desire to please which conflicted with his stronger desire to rule well. All these qualities drew her towards him. She could not deny it, that she cared deeply for him. But love for him beyond simple caring, the kind that held delight and longing and passion, was this burden hers to bear?

Yes, she did love him, she thought with a sinking heart as she settled into her bath. There were too many signs for her to deny it. The hurt that she had felt when he called her by the wrong name still stung. The stab of jealousy that she had felt at that moment was unmistakable, though at the time she had put it aside The way her heart fluttered when he smiled at her, the giddy feeling in her stomach when they laughed together – that was almost girlish longing. The way her body had sung at his coaxing touch in bed with him, this last time, was proof enough of passion.

She knew he had come to care for her, in his way, and certainly he desired her. But she was still the wrong woman, wasn't she? He had all but told her that last night.

Lothíriel put her head in her hands, inhaling the soothing scent of the lavender that Isemay had sprinkled in her bath-water, and tried to collect herself, for she suddenly felt ready to cry. If she loved him, she would have to endure it in silence, at least for now. If he was not ready to love her, so be it. What could she do? She had known it before they had plighted their troth, and still she had accepted his offer of betrothal, and she had to live with her choice, though she knew that now it would be a greater strain on her. She was not the first wife to live with unreturned affection.

Lothíriel walked to her chest of clothes to dress, and as she looked for a simple day gown to wear, her eyes fell upon the bracelet Éomer had made for her for Midwinter, which lay amid other keepsakes, some from her wedding gifts, some from her childhood. He had surprised her then with such an intimate and personal gift. Indeed, life had often surprised her these past weeks.

Maybe, just maybe – there was hope. She would forge her own happiness here in Rohan, with or without Éomer's love. Lothíriel slid the little wreath onto her wrist and made the decision to get on with her day.

* * *

"Where are we going?" asked Éothain of Éomer as they rode north over the snow-covered hills. Éomer had not succeeded in avoiding notice during his escape from Meduseld, and could only escape once he agreed to send for Éothain to accompany him, the only person he thought he could stand. Better Éothain then a host of guards, he had thought at the time. Now he was not so sure. Éothain was perhaps the only man in Rohan who still spoke to him as he always had, as his friend, rather than as a king, but with that came a price. Éothain would question and tease and lecture, any other companions would simply obey without comment.

"Her grave," said Éomer shortly. "I think you knew that when I told you what direction we would ride."

Éothain fell silent, but out of the corner of his eye, Éomer noted a furrow in his friend's brow. He shrugged it off and rode on, hoping Éothain would hold his tongue for once. It was hardly the slightly younger man's business.

As he had walked out of the bedchamber earlier that morning, Éomer had decided that he would visit Breya's grave. It had been several years since he had been able to bring himself to make the short ride from Edoras to where they had buried her – even upon his return to Edoras for Théoden's funeral and his coronation, he had not visited, but then, time for grief and remembrance had been claimed by other more recent deaths. Perhaps now, by visiting her resting place, he could make sense of his life again. Perhaps there he could renew the memory of her face, which sometimes grew dim and hard to recall, the sound of her voice, the way she had been before she had succumbed to her sickness. Some days he could only remember those last painful days, the way they had last made love, tears in their eyes, knowing it was the last time they would ever do so. She had held him in her thin, wasted arms as he sobbed in her chest and comforted him, ever so brave and strong, when it should have been the other way around.

And now another woman had comforted him – he had allowed it to be so.

"Does the queen know?" Éothain asked, breaking his reverie.

"About Breya, or that I am visiting her grave?" asked Éomer, keeping his voice level.

"Both," clarified Éothain.

"She knows about her," said Éomer. "I would not have asked a woman to marry me without telling her of my past."

"At least you give her that much," said Éothain, his voice clipped in clear disapproval. "But not that you still visit her rival's grave."

"Is there something wrong with paying tribute to a loved one?" retorted Éomer, irked at his friend's judgment and choosing to ignore Éothain's use of the word 'rival'. "Am I not allowed that? I have not come here in years. There has not been time and I have stayed away too long."

"What good does it do her?" asked Éothain. "She is gone and if such things occur, her spirit has long passed through the halls of Mandos. She does not know if you come or not."

"What are you implying?" snapped Éomer. "You cannot know that. None of us know whether the dead are watching."

Éothain sighed audibly. "Calm yourself, Éomer. It is only because I worry for you sometimes that I say these things. I think you go to her grave not to pay tribute to Breya but because – "

"Because?" pressed Éomer, his voice teetering on the edge of anger.

"Because you have not even begun to let her go. Because you are afraid to move on. If Breya _could_ see you, my friend, she would weep for you." Éothain's voice was low but firm. "And she would weep for your wife as well. Poor Lothíriel. I wonder how long she can handle living in a dead woman's shadow."

"Quiet!" cried Éomer. "That is enough, my friend. You have crossed your boundaries. Would you speak so to your king?"

Éothain stared at him. "You long ago gave me leave to speak to you as an equal and as a friend, Éomer King. But now you order me into silence – very well, _my liege_."

Cowed but unwilling to back down, Éomer shut his mouth and urged his horse forward. They were fast approaching the grove of trees that nestled beside a stream, the place where Breya lay. It was a simple place, nondescript in its beauty but secluded In the winter, the trees were bare of leaves and the stream quieted by its cover of ice and snow, but in the spring and summer, it was cool and tranquil. It suited Breya as a resting place.

He dismounted and led Firefoot to the small array of stones that marked where Breya was buried. He saw that Éothain hung back and was turning around, allowing Éomer privacy, or perhaps the man just could not stand to watch.

"Hello, my love," Éomer said softly to the wind. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.. They had first sought shelter from the sun in the grove during a hot summer's ride, and found themselves seeking more than just a place to rest. For a moment, he thought he could feel her presence in the grove, but the moment passed as his thoughts were claimed by Éothain's recent remarks. He scowled.

"I do not want to let you go," he said aloud, fiercely, but quietly enough that Éothain could not hear. "I will not." He would hold her in his heart until he died.

More than that, he knew that she would haunt him. Each time he thought himself at peace, Breya's face would flicker behind his eyes and he would feel the familiar twisting in his gut. Sometimes he cursed the recurrent gift, sometimes it seemed these moments of sweet and painful memory were all he lived for. But lately he only found himself riddled with guilt and confusion, thanks to Lothíriel, who had somehow fought her way into his heart and into his arms.

He could have been happy with Lothíriel, he thought in a flicker of awareness. In another time, in another place, if he was another Éomer in a world where the woman he loved had never existed. Lothíriel could have been the woman that Éomer loved.

* * *

Brithwyn was teaching Lothíriel how to weave. It was hard work and Lothíriel's arms and back ached but she welcomed the strain and found the task pleasing as cloth began to form on the loom. It was poorly made cloth, to be sure, but still gave Lothíriel a feeling of accomplishment that distracted her from her earlier dismay and heartache. She found herself laughing hysterically, almost manically, at a joke she made, Brithwyn looking at her in astonishment from where she knelt on the floor beside her.

The woman was hard to get close to, Lothíriel had found, despite her ever kind and attendant manner. She had always seemed a little sad, undoubtedly because of her grief which was still relatively new, but lately, she had seemed even more tight-lipped and spoke little. Lothíriel was concerned for her, but did not know how to reach out to her any more than she already had. She was ever thankful for Brithwyn's advice on her wedding night, and had told the woman so again, but still Brithwyn kept herself guarded and meek.

Now Brithwyn was looking at the wreath on Lothíriel's wrist, which was visible as her sleeves were pushed back to allow her hands freedom to work. Lothíriel remembered the wreath that she had witnessed Éothain giving Brithwyn, which she had initially refused, and wondered if the woman ever wore it, as she had when she had helped Lothíriel prepare for bed that terrifying night.

"Éomer made me this for Midwinter," said Lothíriel conversationally. "I believe it must have been Éothain who taught him how, for he hinted that he had had to learn."

At the mention of Éothain's name, Brithwyn's lips started to tremble. She smoothed her hair out of her face, distraught, and looked down at her lap as if trying to hide her face from Lothíriel. She began to cry in stifled, gasping sobs.

"Why, Brithwyn," cried Lothíriel, taking the woman's hands, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I was so cruel to him!" the woman managed through her tears. "So horrible, so bitter.

"Oh, Brithwyn," murmured Lothíriel, and embraced her as she cried. "He will forgive you."

"He was my only friend. Now he will have nothing to do with me, and I deserve it."

"He was not your only friend," said Lothíriel. "I am your friend, Brithwyn. Or I would like to be."

"I would like that very much," said Brithwyn. "But Éothain..." She started to cry again.

"He loves you, does he not?" asked Lothíriel soothingly, stroking the woman's golden hair.

"He – yes, or he did," stammered Brithwyn with a sniff, pulling away. "But often I have wished he did not. He has always loved me and perhaps there was a time when we were young when I loved him too, but I chose Hunfred, and he stepped aside willingly and was ever a loyal friend, even risking his life, as you overheard. I could not see how I hurt him then, and I wish I could have avoided it, but I loved my husband, majesty. We were so happy for a time, in spite of everything."

"Please call me Lothíriel," Lothíriel corrected. "But now – think you that you could you ever love Éothain?" she suggested, tentatively. People loved more than once in their lives, did they not? Privately, she needed to know.

"I don't know," whispered Brithwyn, her brown eyes wide in her pale, heart-shaped face. "It is too soon for me to think of such things. I still grieve in my heart for my husband. Still, I long for Éothain's friendship but I fear he is lost to me forever. Oh, your majesty – I mean, Lothíriel - I cannot lose him too. I cannot!"

Lothíriel held Brithwyn in her arms and tried to reassure her, but her mind had returned in part to her own similar troubles. What a world they lived in, that was so full of women and men in love with other men and women who grieved over other respective lovers and spouses no longer in this world. If only they could all forget the past and forge new beginnings, if only, if only... if only hearts did not remember and long for what was forever lost to them.

* * *

[A/N: Wow, guys, so much great feedback on the previous chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm currently refining and refining, which basically means tossing out a lot of stuff I had already written for these two, planning to use in the coming plotline and which I am still painfully attached to, but just cannot make fit logically within the arch of their relationship... Hopefully I can work in some of my favorite bits that I'm debating on discarding. Maybe I'll have to make an "outtakes" fic or something like they do for movies. Oh dear! Anyway, it might take some time (but not six months again, I promise. I've been writing this for about three years, and that's just crazy.) Please keep reading and reviewing, and reviewing, and reading... Love, Girlbird]


	18. Just A Ride

18. Just A Ride

"Where did you go this morning?" Lothíriel asked lightly that night as she and Éomer made ready for bed. She did not expect anything out of the ordinary but she was growing curious. He had been gone a long time, not returning all morning, and then there had been little time to talk and he had seemed preoccupied all through the evening, barely speaking at dinner.

"Just out for a ride," Éomer replied as he pulled off his shirt. His back was to her, allowing Lothíriel a clear view of how his back muscles rippled in the process. She looked at him unabashedly, fascinated at the way the candlelight flickered and cast shadows on his skin. With a smile, she thought about fulfilling her sudden urge to go to him and trail kisses along his spine. But then she processed the meaning of his words.

"Where did you go, on "just a ride"? You were gone a long time," she said carefully, not wanting to pry but growing impatient. Éomer shrugged, still not looking at her. She furrowed her brow. "Éomer?"

"Nowhere in particular," he said then. The slight pause before his answer was enough to catch Lothíriel's attention. She had not thought much of his long absence this morning, but now she felt the prickling of concern in her mind.

"It must have been beautiful in the snow," was all she said, however, and she crawled in to bed without another word. Éomer joined her presently. She wondered briefly if he would draw her to him, but he did not. He laid a soft kiss on her brow, and she closed her eyes at the sweet touch of his lips, but that was all he did, to her silent dismay.

"Goodnight, Lothíriel," he said, and turned over to go to sleep.

Lothíriel lay there beside the man who was her husband, not touching him, though she had never wanted something more. She watched him for a long time. Then she closed her eyes and turned away and tried her best to let sleep claim her.

* * *

The next morning, Lothíriel sought out Éothain, the worry in her mind grown to more than just a nagging doubt. Someone pointed her to the stables, and she found him in the stable yard intent on polishing a saddle. "Éothain," she said, announcing her presence, and the man looked up. He made a sudden move to stand up, but she held up a hand. "Please, do not get up on my account."

"My queen," he said from where he sat, complying. "How may I be of service to you this morning?"

Lothíriel took a breath. "You rode with my husband the King yesterday, I am told."

A look of what Lothíriel thought might be apprehension passed quickly over Éothain's face. "Yes, my lady," he said softly. "What of it?"

"Where did you go?" Lothíriel asked, more sharply then she meant to. She caught herself, not wanting to frighten the man, who had always treated her with respect and admiration. "I am sorry. It is only that he will not tell me where he went or why, and it seems strange to me that he is always so honest will say not a word."

Éothain bowed his head, his red-gold hair brilliant in the sunlight, and looked intently at the saddle he was polishing. "We went aimlessly, my lady."

"Really?" asked Lothíriel, folding her arms. "Why do I not believe you?"

"There was a destination, yes," said Éothain after a moment of hesitation. "But my lady – surely you could ask Éomer again. It is not my place – "

"Éothain." Lothíriel nearly stamped her foot. "Why will you not tell me? Why will no one tell me where my husband went?"

"Please, Lothíriel Queen, I would rather you asked Éomer," Éothain said, his face flushing, and not from the cold. He looked very uncomfortable.

"I have asked him and he will say nothing," Lothíriel said softly but firmly. "Please, if there is a destination, and you cannot bring yourself to tell me, then you must take me there. I do not wish to order you but I will if I have to."

Éothain bowed his head in acceptance. "Very well, my lady."

"Half an hour," Lothíriel said, making a decision. "I will meet you here and we will bring several men with us as an escort, only for the sake of my reputation, and the King's."

In the allotted half an hour's time, Lothíriel went up to Meduseld and changed for riding in the cold weather, her hands trembling as she dressed. What was it that Éothain did want her to know? She had a suspicion that it had to do with a certain woman she did not want to think about.

Out on horseback with Éothain and a small escort of men, whom had been told only that Lothíriel wished a ride for pleasure, Lothíriel kept abreast with Éothain, barely noticing the beauty of the snowy world around them, though she did note that the sky stretched on for miles with nary a cloud in sight. They had to go rather slow on account of the horses' footing, but eventually, they came over a rise and saw a grove of trees. Éothain pointed with his gloved hand.

"My lady, that is where we went, or where Éomer went. I was only there out of duty."

"What is it?" Lothíriel asked him, and he gestured to her to ride the short distance to the trees.

Lothíriel bid the other riders to stay, and they obeyed, though some looked rather curious as to where these two were going. Lothíriel ignored them. They would be close enough to see anything that happened, but not to hear what words were spoken.

"What is this place?" Lothíriel asked again, dismounting and leading Faervaren the last few paces.

Éothain swung down beside her. "Breya's grave," he said, finally, his voice betraying a note of strain, "lies just there," he pointed to a small heap of stones under a sweeping oak tree.

Lothíriel walked gingerly to the tree, her legs threatening to give out. She knelt in the snow when she reached it and looked at the grave numbly. Somehow this woman, whoever she had been, seemed incredibly real now, and Lothíriel felt numb to everything else. Somehow she had known this had been where Éomer had gone. Of course.

Éothain laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. "I told him he has no business coming here now that he is married to you, my lady, especially without your knowledge, but now he will not speak to me, I am afraid."

Lothíriel managed a bitter smile. "He will speak to no one, some days. And in his sleep he sometimes cries out to someone, probably her." And calls me by her name, she thought silently.

"I am sorry," Éothain said, his steel-grey eyes serious and sorrowful as he crouched down beside her so that their gazes were level. "I did not know it, truly, my lady, that he had not moved on."

"I knew," Lothíriel said. "He told me how he grieved for her before we wed, and I thought I could accept it and live with it. But now – "

"Now you love him," said Éothain simply. "If you will forgive me for saying it so bluntly.

"Love him?" said Lothíriel instinctively, about to deny it. But why hide the truth, if Éothain had guessed? "Yes, I suppose I do."

Saying it made it final, she thought sadly. There was no going back now and pretending that she did not feel for the King what she had not foreseen. She looked at Éothain pleadingly.

"Please do not tell him," she said. "I cannot bear for him to know it."

Éothain closed his eyes. "Not a word, my lady. Although perhaps – if you told him, it might knock some sense into him."

"He grieves for a happiness he lost, Éothain, not only for the woman herself," Lothíriel said softly. "Perhaps the only real happiness he has ever known. I cannot change it, if he is not willing to let himself be open to new happiness. And when he loved her so... loves her so... " She sighed and took his offered hand of assistance to rise, brushing the snow off of her riding skirt with her other hand as she did so. "Well, I cannot compete for his affection."

"She was but a woman, my lady," said Éothain. quietly. "I knew her well enough. She was sweet, and pretty, and kind, but like us all, she had her faults. Never forget that you are all those things and more." He said so earnestly, and Lothíriel had to smile at him gratefully.

"Still – to him, she was everything, and if he loved her, her faults became virtues in his eyes," Lothíriel replied. "He would love her more for them, and forget what flaws others might remember."

"My lady," Éothain said with feeling, interrupting her. "You are not the only one to love someone who longs for someone else. I know what you feel."

Lothíriel looked at him then with sudden realization. She had not been thinking of anyone but herself these past hours, and was rather ashamed. "Yes, I think that you do." She smiled at him sadly. "What a pair we make. I am glad to know you, Éothain."

He returned the smile, and Lothíriel laughed through her pain. As they rode back in the direction of Edoras, Lothíriel looked at Éothain again. "Tell me of Brithwyn and Hunfred," she requested. "I feel as if there is a story between you three of which I have not quite learned enough to understand."

Éothain grimaced. "There is, and there is not," he said finally. "But I will tell you, if you wish it."

"If you would tell me." Lothíriel waited, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He looked reluctant to begin, but finally he did.

"We were childhood friends, Brithwyn and I. Perhaps one might have called us childhood sweethearts, if one wished." Éothain heaved a sigh.

"I do not like to speak of it much, these days, my lady, but I will try. Brithwyn was just a little thing when we met, grieving over the death of her father, and I was a few years older and would have had no interest in befriending any girl, especially not her age, but something about her won me over and we became inseparable. I loved to make her smile. Life was difficult for Brithwyn, for her mother was not well, not in the head or heart, and later in the body. When I left to go learn to be a warrior, Brithwyn had to stay at home and raise her sister as well as take care of the house and take over her mother's livelihood, which as you might guess was weaving and working as a seamstress if she was lucky enough to find a wealthy commissioner. When I returned to Edoras three years later, I found Brithwyn had grown..."

"Beautiful?" asked Lothíriel to fill the pause and prompt him.

"Yes, beautiful," Éothain acknowledged. "She had grown beautiful and she had grown apart from me. She was different. So unyieldingly serious. She seldom laughed, and most of all, she was not pleased to see me at first."

"Why not?" Lothíriel asked him, grown curious. He sighed and looked at her side-long with a rather ashamed look.

"I never really understood it, at the time, although she did try to explain. The day I returned, she said it was as if I wished to play the hero, to be welcomed into Edoras with open arms as if I'd hung the stars and the moon... She thought I did not understand how hard life had been for her. Perhaps I did not, but dearly I wanted to. And of course, she did not know the things that I had already seen, though I was barely twenty." Éothain laughed a hollow laugh that told Lothíriel that life for Éothain had not been without its own horrors. "Still, she cowed me. I asked her to marry her right then and there, but she would not have me."

"Éothain... I am sorry," Lothíriel said softly. "Did she say why?"

"She did not want a warrior for a husband. She did not want to be left a widow like her mother, I think. She wanted to marry a man with a trade. But Hunfred came along and won her heart."

"And he was a warrior," Lothíriel mused. "Wasn't he? I thought – "

"He was supposed to be," Éothain clarified. "But Brithwyn asked him to give it up. He said that he would try, although he had sworn his oath to serve and he was meant to be a rider in Éomer's company alongside me. I think in his heart he never was a warrior... a poet, maybe. Brithwyn came to me, knowing that I had befriended Éomer, who might hold enough sway to get Hunfred a position as a guard of Théoden King. She pleaded with me, and what could I do? I did what she asked, and Hunfred became a guard of Edoras instead of a rider. And they were married. And my heart rejoiced that she was happy, though I would have had her be happy with me. Hunfred could bring a smile to her face, and I could not."

Éothain's voice betrayed so much sorrow that Lothíriel wanted to embrace him. "And then...?"

"He had to take up arms to ride to the Pelennor, after all," said Éothain bluntly. "Brithwyn again came to me and begged me to keep him safe, for Hunfred had less experience in battle, although he had been skilled enough with a blade. Again, I tried to do what Brithwyn asked of me, but this time I failed, and Hunfred was cut down. And here we are," finished Éothain. "She will have none of me, and crueler words have never been exchanged between us."

"Perhaps she wishes to reconcile with you," said Lothíriel, thinking of yesterday's teary-eyed confession. "I have some idea that she wishes your friendship, at least."

"You have spoken with her?" asked Éothain,

"I have spoken with her, yes, and I believe you should try to make it right between you, though it is not my place to say more," Lothíriel said gently. "As to what might come of it, I cannot say. She needs time, I know. Perhaps she will not be like Éomer."

"Perhaps," sighed Éothain. "But none can know." He did not speak for a time, but then said, "Perhaps Éomer too will see how blessed he is."

Touched, Lothíriel returned his kind smile. She was thankful for his words, which were a comfort to her, though she was not sure that Éomer would ever be able to love her, even if he had all the time in the world.

* * *

[A/N: Thank you thank you thank you. Also, some of you said that Éothain was your hero in the last chapter (mine too!) but that he could have been more tactful. Well, my favorite thing about him is that he can be tactful if he wishes but with Éomer he will firmly speak his mind if Éomer is being a dolt, tact falling by the wayside. These two are closer than brothers in my mind. And Éothain is, as this chapter pointed out, sensitive to the plight of unrequited love. Hope you enjoyed! More to come as always. ~ GB

**Note: **I reworked this chapter a little bit since I first published it, because several people pointed out that it seemed comparatively rushed, it was!** 7/23/11** ]


	19. To Love You Better

19. To Love You Better

Damn him, thought Éomer angrily as he stormed through Meduseld, leaving his sister, who had informed him innocently that Éothain and Lothíriel had made a journey that morning, clearly shocked at his reaction.

Lothíriel had not needed to know, he fumed. But Éothain would not cease to meddle, as if he knew anything. Éothain was biased, in love with a widow who grieved for her own lover. Of course he would think it was better if Éomer turned his love to Lothíriel and forgot the past, forgot his sorrow. As if it were easy, as if it was the right thing to do. As if Lothíriel even wanted that, for how should he know what she felt about it all?

He nearly threw open the door of his chamber, startling Lothíriel from where she sat at the small desk in the corner. She looked up at him for a few seconds, wide-eyed, then went back to writing her letter without a word.

"Lothíriel," he said, collecting his tongue with difficulty. He was certain he looked like a madman.

"You are upset, Éomer?" she asked, her voice and posture a perfect mask of calm.

"And would you tell me why I am upset?" he retorted, folding his arms. He did not like her apparent indifference, although he did not stop to wonder why.

"Maybe you heard about a certain snowy ride today?" Her back still to him, she folded the letter and poured sealing wax on the parchment.

"Where did you go?" he asked impatiently. He was sure he knew where, but he thought he had better make sure.

"As you did not think it fit to tell me yesterday, why should I tell you now?" she asked with no expression whatsoever.

"Because – " he had no answer and exhaled loudly. He looked at the way her dark hair played against the ivory skin of her neck and tried to ignore the way the sight made him feel, which seemed very incongruent to his anger.

"I will tell you, if you wish," Lothíriel said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes held a challenge. "Éothain took me to the place you went yesterday - "

"Damn him."

"He did so because I asked him to," finished Lothíriel. "So do not be angry with him," she warned, and Éomer stared at her. He had never seen such a fearsome look in her eye.

"I will be angry with him as I so please!" he retorted. "And with you, too, if I wish."

"Oh, indeed, Éomer King?" Lothíriel asked, standing up, her arms folded defensively. "I only wanted to know what it was you did not want to tell me. And now, I understand, and I am hardly surprised, but a part of me wishes I had not gone. How it must look to those around us, if you are still going to weep at the grave of another woman!" For a minute, Éomer thought she was going to cry, but then she lifted her chin and glared at him. "I worry for what the public might think of our marriage if word gets out about the truth."

"You knew, Lothíriel," cried Éomer helplessly. "You knew how things stood between us from the beginning."

She threw her arms wide open. "Then why did you try to hide this from me? I would have accepted it as I always have accepted it, never questioning whether I have a right to better."

He stared at her, unsure of the answer himself. "Because – I did not want to hurt you," he said quietly after a long pause. "I thought it was better not to mention it, to mention her at all. I do not like to speak of her with anyone. And I did not want to hurt your pride, after – after the other night. Does that make sense?"

"You call out to her in your sleep, Éomer," said Lothíriel flatly, folding her arms again. "You called me by her name before we made love – do you know what that felt like, knowing I was the wrong woman in your arms? It is too late to pretend there is not another woman in this room with us right now."

Éomer sighed and sank down on the bed, head in his hands. He did not remember calling her anything but her own name. Had he really – ?

"I should never have married you," Lothíriel continued with fury. "I did not know how hard it would be to be your wife. I would rather be married to an old man with no teeth. At least he would die presently and leave me in peace, and it would not be but half a life and half a lie! Oh, for the love of the Valar, why did I marry you?"

And then she was crying, hard, crumpling down upon her chair with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. His heart clenching painfully, Éomer felt the conflicting urges to rush to her and to run far away.

"You should have married someone who was free to love you, Lothíriel," Éomer said finally, his anger vanished completely, replaced only by self-loathing and doubt. "I wish with all my heart that I had never thought to ask for your hand." He stood and walked the few paces to her. When he placed a hand on her shoulder, he felt her trying to stifle her tears, her body shaking silently beneath his palm. "Lothíriel, I would see you smile some day. You have been so good and kind to me, even if you never wanted me or this life."

He pressed a kiss upon the top of her head. "Lothíriel? Will you look at me, please?"

She did not answer or raise her chin, her tears and her resolve too strong. Feeling like a fool and a coward, but not knowing what else to do, Éomer quietly left the room.

* * *

Lothíriel wept long and hard after Éomer disappeared from the room, ashamed at herself for losing control. Now he would surely come to realize how she felt for him, or if he did not, then he was truly hapless. Lothíriel was not quite sure whether it was worse to have her secret discovered or to be married to such an oblivious fool. Her heart had started to hurt with a terrible ache when he had kissed her head and told her, in slightly different words, that he wished she had not married him. She knew what he had meant, but it just made the dagger in her chest twist deeper inside. He wished he had not married her, she knew it. He wanted to be free of the obligation.

After a time, Lothíriel's tears ran out and she lay listlessly on the bed, watching the shadows deepen on the walls as late afternoon crept into evening and feeling the tears dry in salty tracks upon her cheeks. She felt the familiar emptiness that always came after a hard cry, and found it strangely reassuring.

A knock on the door startled her from her reverie. "Who is it?" she called foggily, praying it was not her husband.

"Éowyn," said her sister-in-law's voice and Lothíriel sighed in relief. "My brother said you were unwell. May I come in?"

Lothíriel sighed and sat up with difficulty. She wiped her eyes hurriedly, on her sleeve, knowing that she must look a wreck – her skirts wrinkled, her eyes red and puffy, her hair mussed. So what? "Come in," she replied, and her voice cracked.

Éowyn came in with difficulty, balancing a tray of food on one arm as she opened the door. "I thought you might want to eat something, and brought it myself," she said. "We missed you at dinner."

Lothíriel sighed. "I am sorry if my absence was noted," she murmured. "Thank you for the food, though I fear I am not hungry."

Éowyn set the food down and sat down on the foot of the bed. "Are you all right?"

Lothíriel shrugged and nodded wordlessly. She did not know what else to say, and found that she could not look at her visitor.

"Did you fight with Éomer?" asked Éowyn tentatively, putting a hand on Lothíriel's knee.

"More or less," Lothíriel admitted with a sniff. She ran a hand through her hair in distress. "He found out that Éothain and I went for a ride today..."

"I am sorry, Lothíriel, I mentioned it to him, not thinking it meant anything," Éowyn said. "But am I missing something? What does Éothain have to do with anything?" She looked suddenly suspicious.

"Oh, you do not think – Éothain and I - ?" Lothíriel laughed suddenly at the ludicrous nature of the thought. "No, Éowyn. Éothain and Éomer went for a ride yesterday and were gone all morning, and Éomer would not tell me where he went or why. I thought it strange and I asked Éothain for the truth."

"And where did he take you?" Éowyn asked, her brow drawn in concern. "Where was it that my brother went?"

"Breya's grave," Lothíriel said softly, fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt, still unable to look at Éowyn.

"Oh." Éowyn sighed heavily. "I see. And Éomer did not want you to know. Oh, the stupid, stupid man."

"One thing I do not understand," replied Lothíriel, "Is why he suddenly tries to hide his grief from me. He was so honest with me before, or at least I have always believed him to be."

Éowyn looked down at her hands. "I think he is ashamed of how deeply he feels it after all this time. But at the same time he cannot let himself ease that pain," she paused, "I think my brother is frightened of happiness," she whispered. "He has always tried to endure whatever life has given him, and does so bravely. But instead of leaving the past behind him and looking forward with a lightened load, my brother has carried it all on his back. And that is his way of enduring while doing penance for past happiness that he does not think he ever deserved."

"And yet sometimes he seems to laugh and rejoice in life," Lothíriel replied. "I have seen it, and I cannot understand it when he slips back into despair. I hate to watch it."

"Oh, Lothíriel," said Éowyn, and she smoothed Lothíriel's hair off her face, her grey eyes worried. "Sister. I wish he would let you bring him joy. He has lived so long alone. I had thought you might be able to."

"I want to," Lothíriel confided. "I truly do. Before I married him, I had not thought much of it. But now... I want to see him happy. _I_ want to be the one to make him happy. But now more than that I wish..." She looked at Éowyn sadly. "I think I wish I had never met him."

"Oh, Lothíriel," Éowyn murmured. "I understand how you might feel that. But please, please, do not give up hope. I nearly gave up hope, once, and I could never wish that for you. It was too hard a journey to reclaim it."

Lothíriel embraced her then, her heart warmed by Éowyn's confession. "I will miss you when you go to wed Faramir, though I know you will find happiness there, at least," she said to her sister-in-law. "I do not regret that I have gained a sister."

* * *

Éomer returned to the bedchamber late that night after a long and exhausting internal battle. He hated himself for hurting Lothíriel and again for being angry at her for seeking out the truth. What would he have done in her place? Her actions had been reasonable and he could not have expected her to behave any differently. He had once told her he would be honest with her, and what was more, that he would be always gentle with her, but he had not foreseen how difficult those vows would be to uphold. How this woman affected him! She angered him as easily as she caused his heart to warm and stir.

When he opened the door, he saw that Lothíriel was already in bed. She had left one candle burning, however, which gave him hope that she had not intended to exile him. Quietly, tiptoeing as not to wake her if she was sleeping, he gingerly sat on the opposite side of the bed.

"Lothíriel," he whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Are you awake?"

She did not answer but a slight pause in her breathing let him know that she was probably feigning sleep. "Lothíriel, I was wrong to hide it from you," he continued. "You were right. I had no cause to be dishonest with you and – " he broke off, unsure of how to continue. "I should not have gone there in the first place. It was not fair to you and I did not stop once to think how it might make you feel."

He had hoped for some reaction by now, but still she said nothing. Maybe she really was asleep. "What can I do to atone for myself, Lothíriel?"

"You could start by going away," Lothíriel said, finally breaking her silence. Éomer sighed. He had hoped for a different response.

"And if I did not?" he asked, carefully.

"Then I would ask you to let me sleep in peace," she snapped.

"Lothíriel..." He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the sudden resurgence of anger. Why should her rejection hurt him so?

"Please." It was not a request. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, hurt and wanting to give up but determined to make this right.

"I never thanked you," he said after a time, searching for the right words. "For the night before last. You did not have to offer yourself to me in that way."

"Éomer, did it ever occur to you that I might have wanted to?" With that, Lothíriel finally rolled over to face him. "It is hard to always feel alone even with you there in my bed. I am a woman with desires and needs, same as any other. I had never expected to find..." her voice trailed off. "Pleasure in this marriage bed."

He looked down at her with a half-smile and took her hand, rubbing the palm with his thumb. "Yes, it did occur to me, but I was not sure. I thought you might think I used you poorly. And that," he sighed, "Was in part why I left this bed before you woke. I was hesitant to face you. I am afraid that you married a coward, Lothíriel."

She looked at him, and her stony face softened a bit. When she spoke, it was almost in a whisper, as if she was thinking it to herself. "No, just a very unhappy and conflicted man."

He nodded and looked away from her, suddenly hating the way those words sounded. "Yes, that," he said. He still held her hand and he looked down at it. It felt so right there in his own and he did not want to let go.

When Lothíriel spoke again, she sounded tired, as if all the fight had gone out of her. "Why did you go to her grave? I deserve to know if this something you do often that I will have to live with."

He shook his head and stared at the fire burning cheerfully across the room, letting go of her hand. "I have not gone in over a year."

"So why now? Éomer, I do not understand."

"I guess because – " he rested his head against clasped hands and willed himself to say it. "After I woke to you in my arms, I was frightened because I could not remember her face."

Lothíriel inhaled a deep breath. "Oh..." He felt her tentatively sitting up and moving to kneel beside him on the bed, her hands finding his shoulders. "I don't know what to say, Éomer."

"I know it sounds stupid."

"It does not," she countered quietly. "I know you loved her and if I were you, I know how I would want to keep her memory alive. I remember after my mother died, and how it hurt me when I could no longer quite remember her smile. My father carries her portrait in a locket and looks at it late at night when he thinks no one is watching him."

"I am sorry I have hurt you, Lothíriel," Éomer said quietly. The image of his strong, jovial friend as a lonely man missing his lady saddened him and frightened him. He did not like to picture himself as such in twenty years. "I never wanted to, believe me."

"In a way I think that knowledge hurts me more, as if I am just an inadvertent complication to you." Lothíriel spoke haltingly, her hands leaving his shoulders.

"You are not," he said, turning to look at her. "You are my wife... in a way you have become more my wife than I ever really thought you would be."

"Éomer..." Her brow drawn, she looked at him as if she was searching for his meaning. "I never set out to try and replace her in your heart."

"I know," he sighed.

"I could not. I know. Yet, if I have found a way to fill some other space, if there is room for me, then I hope you would not try and cast me out."

He had no response. Would he? She looked away quickly, biting her lip. Éomer let his head fall back into his hands. "What do we do now, Lothíriel?" he asked her.

"I suspect we will endure," she said with a dry half-smile. "I will forget my anger, perhaps, in time, and perhaps you will have more nightmares, or perhaps not... I will bear you a child, at least one, maybe more, and we will rule this nation we are bound by oath to rule."

"It sounds grim," he said and she laughed, which surprised him. It was a hollow laugh, but it was a laugh.

"What could you do to make our future seem brighter?" she asked him, a note of sarcasm in her voice, but he took the question seriously and found himself making a decision, one he had perhaps already known he would have to make.

"I will try to become more like the husband you should have married," he said firmly. "I will try."

She looked at him in astonishment as if she was not sure she had heard him correctly. "What?"

What, indeed? He looked at her and swallowed. "I will try to move on, Lothíriel," he said, catching her face carefully in his hands, stroking her hair back from her face. "Give me time, but I will try. I never foresaw that I would say it, but I will do my best to learn to love you better, if you give me time."

Her gaze flicked away. "You cannot force your affection."

"Then I must learn to allow it to grow as it sees fit," Éomer replied, smiling the for the first time in what seemed like an age.

"You cannot mean it," she protested, but her hands came up to cover his own and her eyes searched his face. Éomer thought he saw a glimmer of light there in those lovely grey-green eyes for the first time all evening.

"I swear it." He looked at her trembling lips and took a shaky breath. "I cannot say that I will be perfect, Lothíriel, but for you, I will try."

"If I could believe you..." she faltered, lowering her eyes. "I do not think you are able to do what you promise."

"I know why you would say that," Éomer replied hurriedly. "And perhaps, perhaps... perhaps you would not want my love if I could give it."

"You know that I have never set out to win it," said Lothíriel, and he saw that she was blushing. "Still you are my husband and yes, I would want my husband's love, one day, if I was so lucky to receive it. But Éomer, you would have to let go of a great many things. I do not know how to help you, though I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could take away your pain."

"I don't know if I can be the husband you deserved," said Éomer truthfully, overwhelmed. "I don't." He kissed her brow with sudden passion. "But I do know, Lothíriel, that I could have loved you easily, in another place and another time."

She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her trembling again beneath his hands. "Éomer," she whispered into the fabric of his shirt, just loud enough that he could make out her words. "I think I would have liked to have known you in that other time."

"Sweetheart," he murmured into her hair. She shuddered as if in a sort of release, then softened into him as he held her close, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He pulled her halfway into his lap and she curled up against him, her head tucked under his chin. They stayed that way for a long time, while Éomer inhaled the familiar lavender scent of her hair and wondered what he had gotten himself into. Though he was still very confused, he found that he was not entirely afraid of the future anymore, not with Lothíriel by his side. She had somehow wielded his head and heart in a new direction, and somehow she had been willing to forgive him his missteps. With that encouraging thought in mind, he held Lothíriel a little tighter as her breathing slowed and she drifted into sleep in his embrace. Perhaps the next day they could start again.

* * *

[A/N: Hey there. So I know many of you hoped that Lothíriel wouldn't forgive him so easily and that I'd have her exile Éomer from her bed, or something, but I'm afraid that's not quite the idea I had in mind, though it would have been interesting. These two have a long way to go, however, and there will be more struggle and strife as well as a good deal of hope and happiness for them both, so don't worry that Lothíriel's going to be totally submissive all the time, cause she's not, she's just a more resilient woman than I would be in her situation and can put up with a lot more before she breaks - and she loves him, don't forget it, he's got a hold on her that's more powerful than even her stubbornness. And I hope Éomer has redeemed himself a little in your eyes, because I never intended to place one of them on a pedestal above the other. They're both imperfect in different ways, and I think the tables will keep turning. Thanks for reading and as always, for reviewing! ~ GB]


	20. Like This

20. Like This

When Lothíriel woke in the morning, again her bed was empty. She blinked back a pang of sudden sadness, wondering if the conversation the night before had been for nothing, but then she realized that the sunlight flooding into the room was unusually bright and warm. It must have been late morning! She sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes and looking around the room in disorientated dismay. Why hadn't Éomer woken her? He knew she hated to sleep late, and there was so much to do this day – a council meeting, correspondence, a feast for Éowyn's coming birthday to prepare for! Éomer!

Her eyes fell upon a piece of parchment on the pillow next to her with a note written in Éomer's lazy scrawl, which stopped her in her tracks. She picked it up and read it hurriedly, and by the end she was smiling.

_Sleepyhead,_ it read, _You looked exhausted and I thought it better to let you stay abed. Before you decide to come curse me for allowing you to laze about all morning, please take it under consideration that I decided to set aside all things related to ruling until tomorrow. We have the day off, if I have my way. I do request your presence, however. Meet me in the stables, and dress warm! – Éomer_

Lothíriel jumped out of bed like a little girl, running to do as he told her. When she reached the stables some ten minutes later, she found her husband waiting with two unfamiliar horses saddled. He handed her the reins to a pretty chestnut filly, saying, "I thought Faervaren looked as if she needed a rest. This one is young and spirited but I believe you can handle her. I think she'll will be a good mount for you, and if you like her after today, she's yours, to train and ride as you please. There is much she needs to learn."

Lothíriel took the reins from him and got acquainted with the filly, touched that he would go through the trouble of finding her a well-suited mount and that he would essentially gift her with it. Still... she looked at her husband sidelong. "She's beautiful, but I do not need another horse," she said carefully, caught by her loyalty to her grey mare.

"Perhaps not, but you are a queen of Rohan and you must have a wealth of horses to choose from so that you match them to all those pretty gowns of yours," Éomer said with a sudden grin. Lothíriel shot him an evil look, and he winked at her. Lothíriel tossed her head and pretended to scorn him but she was smiling.

"Thank you."

"Consider it a token of my apology," Éomer replied, his voice low.

Lothíriel blushed and inclined her head in acceptance, embarrassed. "So where are we going?" she asked him, wanting to lighten the mood. "Please say we are not headed north again!"

"No," he grimaced, "But I thought a ride for pleasure would do us both some good."

"I think you were right," Lothíriel replied, and allowed him to help her into the saddle. She thanked him for the gesture, though she could have managed herself quite easily, and privately she relished the feel of his gloved hands brushing lightly over her hips, her knee, and finally her boot-clad foot as he helped her find the stirrup.

He swung up on his own chosen mount, a young bay gelding, and they rode off togther, waving and nodding to those they passed on their way out of Edoras, both clearly relieved once they rode past the gates and could be themselves.

* * *

She looked like a queen, Éomer thought, watching Lothíriel deftly handle the proud chestnut filly, who picked up and placed her hooves daintily on the snow-covered ground with the air of a royal herself. When he had met Lothíriel in Minas tirith and again in Dol Amroth all those months ago, she had been but a girl with the carriage and mannerisms of one, though her eyes had always betrayed a depth as mysterious and as changing as the sea. Now she commanded attention and appeared every inch a woman. He supposed that marriage would do that to a girl, and that marriage to a king nearly required it.

As if she was reading his thoughts, she said suddenly, "You know, there are times that I do not feel like a queen at all, but still a girl, just as I was before we met, before the war, before all of this. I am no queen, only myself."

He smiled. "Nor I a king."

She laughed, liking the sight of the easy grin that spread over his face. "Do all rulers feel like we do at first?"

Éomer shook his head in mock seriousness. "Not at all. I am sure that," he cleared his throat, "I am sure that Aragorn came out of the womb in perfect noble bearing."

Lothíriel giggled. "He intimidates me, so natural is he at behaving as a king should."

"Ah well, he has lived much longer than you or I. And you should keep in mind, you have not seen him drink with Gimli and Legolas." Éomer grinned at the memory. Lothíriel stared at him.

"I cannot picture it," she said, wide-eyed, and for a minute she looked like almost like a child as she struggled with her amusement. Éomer laughed at her expression and she raised her eyebrows at him. "However, I can picture you, Éomer. I have in fact seen you drink with the dwarf and the elf. I watched you at Aragorn's coronation feast."

Éomer felt himself chuckle. "A night to remember, or perhaps not to." He paused, curious at her words. "You watched me?"

"As I watched all of you," she explained. "The straw-haired men of Rohan, who were louder and burlier than the white-crested, dignified captains and soldiers of Gondor and Dol Amroth that I was used to, speaking in your strange tongue. I had encountered your men in the healing houses, of course, but there in suffering all men seem more alike than different. And then there were elves and dwarves and the halflings... I had never seen the like. I remember that for once I was content to sit and watch when I was without a partner with whom to dance.

Éomer nodded in understanding. It had been a gathering of different races such as he had never seen.

"You know," said Lothíriel softly. "Of all the men there, perhaps I did watch you more than most. I remembered meeting you days before and thinking that you seemed unbearably grave and burdened. But at the feast, I remember you were smiling and seemed much happier. And then I seldom thought of you again, until you showed up at my home."

Éomer felt he should reply. "I watched you dancing," he admitted. "Imrahil's daughter, I remembered. You wore a gown of crimson and bound your hair with a net of rubies."

"I did," she acknowledged with a dry smile. "I had never had a dress so richly dyed. All the other unmarried girls had gowns of pale blue and pink and ivory. I felt very brazen at first and very grown-up. "

"It became you well."

"You noticed?" Lothíriel asked, startled. "Did you know even then that you might seek my hand? Had my father – "

"No, not then," Éomer said. "There was of course already talk about who I should wed but I could hardly wrap my mind around the idea. There I was, suddenly a King, grieving for an uncle and worried for a sister. I was overwhelmed, Lothíriel. But I did notice you in your deep red gown."

"And what did you think of me?" Lothíriel asked.

Éomer thought he could detect a blush on her cheeks, that the high color in her cheeks was not just from the cold. He looked at her sidelong. To be honest, Éomer had not thought extensively of her at the time, though he had picked her out of the crowd. He had noticed many women that night, his heart yearning for another even as he did so. But all that was not something he felt he should say. "I thought you danced with grace and that you seemed very well-bred. I wondered if you had given your heart to someone there for you seemed joyful." Though he spoke truthfully, this was all he could say.

"Weren't we all?" replied Lothíriel. "I had given my heart to no man, however," she added a bit sadly, "Though there were men there who quite plainly wished it. I do believe, however, that most of these men, if not all, were not truly after my heart but my dowry and power. I know not if there has ever been someone who wanted me merely because it was me."

Éomer was suddenly glad of this. How hard would it have been for her had she loved another when she came to wed him? Better to never have known what she had been missing. Or was it? He knew in his heart that he was lying to himself. He knew then that what he had always said to her was true: that he would rather have had her be happy and wed to someone who could give her that.

But then again, had she wed some other man – where would he be? Selfishly, he was glad she was here with him now. He sighed. It was not another man's task to make her happy. It was his. And he had promised to fulfill it.

His thoughts were interrupted by an earful of icy snow. He gasped and turned his horse horse to face the direction from whence the snowball had came. Lothíriel and her horse stood beside a heaping snowdrift and she held up a mittened hand whose encrusting of snow, coupled with her wicked grin, marked her as guilty. She giggled at Éomer's raised eyebrow. Then he charged.

Lothíriel's squeal as he bent down from the saddle and scooped up a handful of snow in one smooth motion as his horse approached her was music to his ears. She was cornered by the snowdrift and the rocky hill that rose up behind it and could not easily escape him, so he had an easy target. He rode straight at her and wheeled his horse at the last possible moment to avoid smashing into her, tossing his palmful of snow into her face as he passed. She shrieked.

"Someone ought to unhorse you," she cried through a mouthful of snow. But she was laughing. "Maybe it will be me."

"I haven't been unhorsed in fifteen years," retorted Éomer with a smirk. "I would like to see you try."

A gust of wind blew a flurry of snow into his faces and Éomer was suddenly blinded. When he was done wiping the stinging snow from his eyes, he saw that Lothíriel was nowhere in sight. A feeling of foreboding began to fill him, but before he could form the thought to turn around a cold and wet sensation met the skin of his neck. Startled, he jerked his rein and his horse, unused to such manhandling, reacted. Before Éomer knew it he had been dumped to the ground. His gelding shook his mane and cantered off with great satisfaction.

She had ridden around him in the moments he had been blinded and snuck up from behind, Éomer thought dazedly from where he lay in the snow as Lothíriel's delighted laughter reached his ears.

"Seems someone has grown rather cocky!" Lothíriel sang brightly. Then she paused. "Are you all right?"

Éomer didn't respond, keeping his eyes closed and letting his body go lax. Better give her a taste of her own medicine, he thought with a private grin.

"Éomer?" she asked, more apprehension in her voice. He sensed that she had dismounted and was approaching at a run. "Oh, Éomer, are you hurt?"

He opened his eyes then and looked up at her, grinning wickedly, and her eyes widened. Quick as a mountain cat, he climbed to his feet and grabbed her, picking her off her feet and swinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "You play with fire, wife," he warned.

"Put me down, you brute!" she yelped, beating her fists on his back.

"All in due time," he said, marching onward.

"Oh, you wouldn't dare!" she shrieked, realizing in her upside-down state what he had in mind. But it was too late, for her words were sooned muffled by a mouthful of snow as he dumped her in the very same snowdrift that had supplied her snowballs.

* * *

Snow enveloped Lothíriel, finding its way into her clothing, her hair, her boots. She struggled to sit up but only sunk deeper into the snowdrift. It took much more effort for her to escape. Finally, she broke free of her snowy prison and rolled out onto safer ground.

Éomer stood over her, his arms folded. "You had it coming," he said with a satisfied grin as she glared up at him with a look that could freeze him in his boots.

But her veneer crumbled as she met his eyes, slowly turning into a smirk then to outright laughter. She could not be angry with him, for in reality she was pleased. They had never been playful with each other, only tense and cautious and serious and gentle. She had missed these opportunities to be her old self. She had frolicked in the snow with her brothers the few winters they had spent at Minas tirith as children. She had loved to play, before the war. More recently, however, she had feared that side of her had been snuffed out completely.

"Perhaps I did," Lothíriel said in response to Éomer's statement as she lay back in the snow and stretched out, staring up at the vast open sky. There was nary a cloud to speak of. The smell of the snow hit her nostrils, biting and stiff and clean.

She was aware of Éomer stretching out his solid frame on the snow beside her. They lay there in silence, taking in everything around them. The peace and silence that enveloped this world astonished Lothíriel, still so used to the sound of the waves against the cliffs of Dol Amroth, the wind, and the babble of the city. There was no one in sight, no sign of other human life in this sea of white hills.

Her reverie was broken when a mittenful of powdery snow found its way onto her face and into her parted mouth. She yelped in protestation. Éomer's laughter followed. She turned her head to glare at him again. "Warg."

"High praise from a harpy of the sea," he said smugly, and leaned back in the snow, head in his arms and whistled softly. Lothíriel exhaled and tried to sit up but he reached out and pulled her down again, shifting to pin her in the snow with his arm.

"I'm cold," she protested, struggling. "There is snow in every crevice of my body."

"In every crevice?" Éomer asked, smirking. Lothíriel caught the insinuation, which made her blush furiously, and she swatted him with her free hand, giggling in spite of herself.

He smiled and released her, rolling onto his side and raising himself up on his elbow to look down into her face. After a moment, he took off his mitten and brushed a clump of snow off her brow. Her laughter subsided quickly and she caught her breath at the sudden touch and the sight of him above her, his face so close to hers.

"It is good to hear you laughing," Éomer said seriously, his fingers lingering on her cheek. She felt her heartbeat quicken and warm.

"As it is to hear you," she whispered, her breath trembling in her chest. Yesterday they had been at war. Today they were giddy and tender like children. This was too much to make sense of. All that she knew at this moment was the nearness of him.

His hand moved slowly, fingers sliding along the curve of her jaw and the shell of her ear to cradle her face, thumb tracing gentle circles. Lothíriel stared up at him, utterly breathless by this time, her face warm despite the snow. She wanted his kiss and she did not know that pleading filled her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Lothíriel," he whispered, tracing her lips with his fingers, breathing in as she did. "Would you mind much if I kissed you?"

Lothíriel reached up to cradle his face in return, filled with tremulous happiness. "I would only mind if you did not."

When his lips did finally come down to cover hers like fire on her icy skin, they were as welcome to Lothíriel as cool summer rain.

* * *

As Lothíriel was making ready for bed that same night, Éomer suprised her with a hand sliding around her waist and hips. He pulled her close against him and with his other hand swept her hair aside so that he might press his lips to the bare skin of her shoulder. Lothíriel was naked to the waist, having been in the middle of undressing, and she shivered as the skin of her back met the soft bed of golden hair on his own bare chest, though it was not from the cold. She could feel the hardness in his breeches pressing against her and what he wanted from her was very clear.

Lothíriel was vaguely aware of Isemay slipping quietly out of the room. "Husband?" she asked, suppressing an astonished smile.

"Were you expecting someone else?" was the response and Lothíriel laughed.

"What news from Gondor?" she said blandly, trying to gather her thoughts and steady her pounding heart. She had suddenly gone weak at the knees. When they had arrived back at Edoras that day, a letter from Elessar had been waiting that could not be ignored.

"I have to go to Minas tirith," Éomer said softly. "Tomorrow morn. To treat with the Wildsmen."

"So soon," Lothíriel murmured, stunned. This news distracted her momentarily from the compromising position of being half-naked in Éomer's embrace.

"They will not wait. You must take up ruling on your own for a while, in my absence," Éomer said. "Can you do that?"

"I will be honored," said Lothíriel softly.

Éomer's hand, the one that had swept her hair aside, now slid along her shoulder and down her arm. "But before I go, I thought we might pick up where we left off in the snow this afternoon," he whispered in her ear. "If you are willing."

Lothíriel closed her eyes and let her head fall back against his shoulder, thinking about that vulnerable kiss in the snow. Though desire had coursed through her veins, and she could tell that Éomer had felt the same sensation, she had not known what he thought. He had said little afterwards as they rode back to Edoras, only remarking on her shivers and the importance of getting her home so that she might be warm and dry. Then that pressing letter from Gondor had called him away from her, and she had dined with Éowyn and Isemay and Brithwyn. She had feared all evening that her husband regretted the kiss and would flee from her again, turning all their new efforts into nothing.

"Éomer," she whispered softly, drawn back into the moment as Éomer began to kiss her throat with a soft, heated mouth, sliding his other arm around her and drawing her closer in his embrace. This touch felt very different from the gentle but dutiful coaxing of the past. "I am willing. I want to give you an heir."

"Is that all?" he asked, sounding amused. Lothíriel blushed. She could see in her mind the way the corners of his mouth would have deepened as he said those words.

"Is that not what you want?" she asked slowly, turning in his arms to look at him. The question that she could not dare to form was surely in her eyes. He looked at her through heavy golden lashes. Lothíriel had never quite noticed how, though his years in the sun had already etched faint crow's feet into the corners of his eyes, these lashes made her husband look young and boyish when one focused on his gaze. Lothíriel held her breath.

"I do want an heir," Éomer said in response. Those golden-brown eyes in their halos of golden lashes glimmered as he tipped up her chin with his forefinger, much as he had on their wedding night. "All that in its proper time. If my taking you to bed tonight gets you with child, then I will thank the Valar. But..."

Lothíriel smiled softly. "But...?"

"Think not that I only do so to conceive an heir. I desire you, Lothíriel. Surely you know that by now. Our bed should be warmer than it has been." When Lothíriel did not answer, he said again, more softly, "I desire you."

"And I you," Lothíriel said finally, blushing at the confession. "I only want you to be... certain." That you are not thinking of someone else, she finished silently. That it is me you are making love to. There was so much she did not feel she could say out loud, even now.

"Ahh," he said, a deep furrow between his brows. Perhaps he understood her. He picked up her hand and kissed the fingertips lightly, the concern fading from his brow as his eyes began to smile. "How can I convince you that I want you? Like this?" He pressed his lips to her brow in a very chaste kiss.

A smile spreading in her heart, Lothíriel shook her head, and he moved his lips to her cheek. She shook her head and pulled away, giggling. "No."

"Like this?" he asked, claiming her mouth with his own in a heated kiss, urging her lips apart with his tongue. Lothíriel clung to him as her knees grew weak, yielding to his kiss like a child then with difficulty she drew away. She could play this game.

"It could be anybody's mouth," she responded archly, crossing her arms over her bosom, which was still very much exposed, she remembered too late. Éomer's eyes went to her folded arms and he raised his eyebrows. Gently, he took her wrists and drew her arms apart, bending to kiss the inside of each forearm before then moving his attentions to her breasts.

"Like this?"

Lothíriel let out a shaky sigh in spite of herself as his tongue encircled her nipple, coaxing it until it stiffened. Her hands caught in his hair and gently she pulled him closer, and she gasped in shock as her back met the cold wall behind her as they stumbled backwards. "Anybody's breasts," she replied with difficulty. Éomer looked up at her in exasperation.

"Is it enough to know I am going mad?"

"Not unless I can be certain it is me and my refusals that are leaving you aching," Lothíriel responded immediately.

"I see," Éomer said sadly and he bowed his head. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees before her. "Well, my lady... you leave me no choice."

Naively, Lothíriel wondered what he would do next, but immediately all became clear as he ran his hands down over her hips and legs to find the hem of her skirt, easing it up over her thigh and pressing his lips to the sensitive skin there, moving upwards along the inside of her thigh, inching closer and closer to her sex with each evocative kiss.

"Éomer," she murmured with a gasp when his mouth and hands finally found that tender, aching place between her legs, burning through the undergarments she still wore. "Please."

"Please, what?" he murmured, and Lothíriel could imagine the wicked smile on his face.

"Éomer."

"Like this?"

"Yes, like this..." Lothíriel smiled down at him, awed by how he could reduce her to clay in his hands, inflicting so much pleasure it was almost painful. Could she do the same for him, she wondered, in turn?

For a moment he looked incredbily young in his eagerness, like a boy at play, but then her bold, beautiful warrior returned as he stood, picked her up in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom. There was a fiercely determined look in his eyes akin to the way he had looked earlier when he had retaliated to her snowballs, Lothíriel thought in bemusement as he laid her back on the bed, before her thoughts gave way and her senses took over.


	21. Turning Tables

21. Turning Tables

Dawn came swiftly the next morning, too swiftly, Éomer thought, as he lay awake in bed, Lothíriel settled in the curve of his arm. She slept soundly on, stirring only briefly to nestle closer to him. Éomer thought back to the night before with longing, half-wanting to wake her with a rousing kiss but reluctant to disturb her sleep. In the end, he was content to study her there before him and feel her body against his.

And now I must leave you, he thought silently. He knew the hour had come when he needed to make ready to depart. Still he lingered, unwilling to leave the warmth of his bed and the supple softness of the woman beside him. His wife.

But was this well? He wondered at his calmness regarding the new turn their relationship had taken. All he knew was this moment, this way she felt right in his arms, the memory of her touch, her body, her voice the night before. He felt that he should struggle against it, but somehow he could not bring himself to care. He would have it that he did not have to leave so quickly. that he could wake up with Lothíriel and pull her into his arms to make love to her once again...

But the pale light in the window grew warmer, taunting him with the knowledge that he must go. At long last, unwilling to disturb Lothíriel's sleep, Éomer forced himself away into the morning light to make ready for his journey.

* * *

Lothíriel woke in a sleepy haze, her body warm with the memory of the night before. A smile on her lips, she turned her head to gaze upon her husband –

Who was not there.

She sighed, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. What time was it? He had left already, unwilling to face her, perhaps. Any progress she had thought they had found was perhaps an illusion. Damn you, Éomer, she whispered, throwing off the covers and stumbling out of bed to find him. This was the last time he would creep out of bed without her. She would give him a piece of her mind – or scold him before his men. Or perhaps she would kiss him.

She bumped into Isemay in the corridor, who until that moment had been carrying a pile of neatly folded linens almost bigger than she was, but which was promptly scattered on the floor. "Has my lord left already?" she demanded the girl after hurriedly apologizing, bending to help her gather the pile.

"I believe he is before the steps of Edoras, about to make way," Isemay said, tucking her chin over the pile of now rumpled linens. "Will you be needing to dress, milady Queen?" she asked sweetly with a pointed look. Lothíriel looked down at herself and swore. She was wearing nothing but the sleeveless chemise she had thrown on in the night. She flushed. "Of course," she said. Isemay followed her into the room to help her.

"Is he leaving now?" Lothíriel asked impatiently, rummaging through her trunk of clothes trying to find a gown that did not require lacing. The one that had been laid out was a horror to get into.

"I do not know, majesty," Isemay said, heading towards her head with a comb.

"Then I will go find out," she said, abandoning her search for clothes and waving away isemay's futilel efforts to tame her hair. She grabbed her cloak from the chest and threw it around her shoulders. She would wrap it close around her, and to hell with those who cared.

"Majesty?" Isemay asked uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"I am going to bid my lord farewell," Lothíriel said determinedly, pulling over bare legs her soft leather boots that were lined with fur. "It is customary for the lady to see off her lord, is it not?" she asked as she rushed out the door.

"Yes, majesty," replied Isemay, clearly shocked. "But seldom dressed like that." Lothíriel laughed at her own folly and ran her fingers through her hair as she rushed out the door.

Éomer was kneeling, checking one last time the nails that held the metal shoes to Firefoot's hooves, when the sound of rustling fabric that indicated men rushing to kneel caused him to turn his head. Lothíriel was walking with intention down the steps of Edoras towards him, her blue cloak white against the snow dusting the steps and her head held high.

"Were you planning to creep away in the night, Éomer King?" she asked in a voice that carried, causing a chuckle to ripple through his men.

Éomer stood with a sheepish smile. "It is hardly night, Lothíriel Queen," he replied to her jape with a very broad gesture to the skies.

She looked at him with reproach as she came to a standstill before him. "And you are hardly a true knight of Rohan," she said, her mouth twitching at her own wit, "To leave your lady without a proper farewell."

"Would a true knight disturb such peaceful sleep?" Éomer asked sweetly, looking her over and fighting back a laugh. She was quite a sight with dishelved hair and cheeks rosy from the cold. Her cloak, where it blew open around her knees, revealed only boots, no gown. Curious.

Lothíriel paused and stepped closer to him in the pretense of straightening his cloak so that she was looking up into his face. "I do not recall much sleep," she said, her voice low and her eyes flickering to the side. "Do you?"

"No," he murmured, catching her wrist in his hand and kissing her palm. He was aware of the eyes of his men, but did not particularly care. "But I could not bear to wake you," he admitted. "Do not be angry," he said.

"I am not angry," she retorted in his ear. "Not for such a gentle gesture. But angry that you would go away before I could do this," she whispered firmly, freeing her arms from her cloak and sliding them around his neck. Bare arms. Éomer looked down as her cloak fell way from her body She was wearing nothing but her nightdress, he realized. As their bodies met, he noted that she wore nothing underneath. That, coupled with the fire her eyes, caused a fire of his own to reignite within him.

"Are you not cold?" he asked very calmly in her ear to hide the fact that his blood was racing. He bit back a laugh. This was something he had never thought to see, and he could be certain that his people would be talking about their queen's appearance for months.

"Cold? No," she said simply, a grin passing over her face. But there was a sudden furrow between those raven brows. "Still..."

"Still?" he asked, a hand instinctively coming up to her cup her face.

"I fear I will be cold these coming weeks," she said softly, her hands tracing a pattern on his chest. "What do you think?" she asked lightly, "The weather will be harsh?"

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, unable to answer the implied question. "Come here," he said lightly to hide the ache, "You know that the men will be talking the entirety of our journey about the moment you appeared before all of Edoras in a nightgown and a pair of boots?"

She smiled and tossed her head, the uncertainty fading from her eyes. "Let them," she said, and drew his mouth firmly down to hers. She kissed him deeply, a hand trailing down his torso, pulling him toward her before she abruptly drew away. Éomer fought to control the fresh pool of heat that gesture caused. Did she know how she was taunting him? He thought the answer might be yes.

"Go, Éomer King," Lothíriel said, "Help forge the bonds of peace that will protect this land. Guard yourself on the road," she added softly, only for him, "And come back to me whole."

"I will." Éomer reached out to cup her cheek, brushing a thumb along that soft skin, so rosy in the cold. He lingered there a moment, then cleared his throat and swung up on his horse. He looked down at her for a moment. "Don't freeze." Then he forced his eyes away and left without another glance, his men falling in behind him. The horses' hooves fell softly in the light blanket of fresh snow.

* * *

""You have patched things up with my brother," Éowyn said later, her eyes twinkling at Lothíriel, as they sat with Brithwyn and Isemay shelling nuts beside one of the fire braziers in the great hall of Meduseld. With Éomer and many of his men gone, the Golden Hall was quiet, with only a few habitants talking softly in the corners. Still, fires burned brightly in the torches and the braziers, casting a cheerful glow around the room, flickering off the ornate patterns on the pillars. Lothíriel was taking a much needed pause from the piles of accounts and paperwork that had been left for her on Éomer's desk.

Lothíriel flushed bright red and said nothing. Éowyn laughed. "I was there this morning."

"Things are more civil between us," Lothíriel replied, arching an eyebrow, "If that is what you meant to imply."

"Civil," said Éowyn with a mock-thoughtful look, studying Lothíriel through knowing eyes. "If that is a civil treaty I fear for a time when you move beyond civility. I believe it would be very uncomfortable for those around you." She caught Isemay's eye and winked, and the girl began to giggle.

Amused in spite of herself and giddy with the coming realization that life held new prospect, Lothíriel joined in. Even Brithwyn laughed, lifting her head from where it had been bowed over her work and allowing her mask of sadness to slip away.

Lothíriel sighed and let her head fall onto her arm on the back of the chair in contentment. "If I had known the pleasures of marriage could be as they are, I would never have been so reluctant to wed the King. I shall miss him these coming nights." She laughed out loud, surprised at her own admission.

"I did not need to know such things!" said Éowyn, a disgusted look on her face. "He is my brother!"

Lothíriel grinned at her. "You will soon be able to inform me about Faramir's prowess and even the score."

Éowyn did not even blush as she met Lothíriel's eyes. "There are things I could tell you now." At Lothíriel's intake of breath, she quickly held up a hand. "Not – we have not crossed that boundary although I confess I often question to myself the point. Who would know, or care? Still," she smiled, hiding her mouth in her hands. "He has given me enough to look forward to."

A throat clearing interrupted Lothíriel's reply, and Brithwyn stood abruptly, her face turned away. "Excuse me, my ladies," she said. "For the interruption. But I would prefer it if my sister should not hear such things. If it please you, might I take her along with me to help sort through linens?"

"Sister," protested Isemay. "I'm a woman same as you. I'm fifteen. I want to stay."

"Isemay," warned Brithwyn, her jaw set. "Don't argue. Mama would have my head if she knew - "

"We need not speak of these things anymore," interjected Lothíriel, wondering if there was another underlying cause for Brithwyn's discomfort. "Forgive us, Brithwyn. Perhaps we forgot ourselves." She caught Éowyn's eye, wondering if the same thought had passed through her sister-in-law's.

Isemay stood too, ignoring Lothíriel's interruption, her hands on her hips and her flaxen hair flying as she tossed her head. "Mama would be overjoyed if she knew I was a maid to the queen of Rohan. She wouldn't care what I heard."

"She would be overjoyed to know you had a roof over your head and were provided for. She would be thrilled if she knew that I was raising you to be modest and well-behaved," replied Brithwyn, her voice level. "But you forget yourselves in front of these women, your betters, who are kind enough to provide for you - "

"They don't treat us like we are beneath them! They don't look down at you as a peasant. They don't treat me like a child!" Isemay shot back, clearly furious. She stamped her foot. "Not like you. Ever since Hunfred died, you have kept me from everything I want because you cannot bear that I might be happy - "

Brithwyn slapped her across the cheek. Isemay stumbled backward, clearly stunned. Brithwyn turned away, her jaw tightly clenched, and left the space without another word.

Lothíriel had been biting her cheek and trying to pretend that she was not in the room. Across from her, Éowyn looked equally distressed.

Lothíriel sighed, and stood, walking over to Isemay, who stood there in clear shock. She placed her hands on the girl's shoulders. "I think – perhaps we have been insensitive. Isemay, it is true you are quite of an age to be curious of relations between men and women but we should respect your sister's wishes. Are you all right?"

Isemay nodded, her eyes lowered, a trembling hand pressed to her reddened cheek. "I'm sorry, your - your majesty."

"I am not offended," Lothíriel replied. "But you should be kinder to your sister. She has led a hard life."

"So have I, my lady, meaning no disrespect," Isemay interjected.

"I know," sighed Lothíriel, "But Brithwyn is only trying to give you a better one. Surely you can see that."

"By keeping me a child?" asked Isemay skeptically.

"By keeping you modest," Lothíriel replied after a moment, deciding to be frank. "You must guard yourself against getting pregnant with a bastard child, with no father to provide for you."

"I know that," retorted Isemay and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. "Your majesty, I beg your pardon," she added quickly, dropping into another curtsy. "I need to learn to control my tongue."

"I like your tongue, Isemay," Lothíriel said. "You have many things to say and I hope you guard your spirit. Fifteen is not an easy age, above all for a girl."

"I must marry," Isemay said softly. "I have a place in Meduseld, perhaps, but nothing is certain for a maid. If I have no one to provide for me, I could very well end up as my mother did. I know that."

"You will always have a place in Meduseld as long as I am queen," said Lothíriel, "If you want it."

"I thank you, milady."

"Is that what you want?" asked Lothíriel after a moment, "To marry?"

"I want – " Isemay broke off and shook her head. "I should not say it."

"You can speak freely to me, Isemay," Lothíriel said, ushering her over to the settee. "Here, come sit beside me. We are not so different in age. My former maid, Nee, was more my companion than my servant." She sighed, a pang of sadness washing over her. _Oh, Nee. I must write to you. _

"I want to do much more than marry. Much more than sort through linens and wait on other women," Isemay said abruptly. "Begging your pardon. But I do not have the means to go beyond my station, nor am I a man."

"What would you do, Isemay, if you were free?" Lothíriel asked. "Tell me."

"My sister had simple dreams, of a plot of land, a husband, a home full of children. I would like more than that. I don't know what I would do, if I could, but – " Isemay looked at her with those big blue eyes brimming with a passion that Lothíriel had never seen in the girl before.

"I would like to learn," Isemay admitted finally. "To study, to become a master of knowledge. To read books upon books. But – it could never be possible. Not for me."

Lothíriel smiled and took the girl's hand, filled with an idea. "Do you know how to read, Isemay?"

Isemay, startled, shook her head. "No. I'm a peasant. Very few have the opportunity to learn to read."

"We will have to change that, then," Lothíriel said firmly. "I will teach you. And then you will be able to teach others."

Isemay's face lit up and she threw her arms around Lothíriel in a gesture more sweet and spontaneous than Lothíriel had experienced in years. She laughed and embraced the girl back. Another task to work towards.

It was not until late that night when she returned to an empty bedchamber that Lothíriel allowed herself to think seriously about the night before. With a sigh of weary despair she slumped down upon the chair before the fireplace and leaned her head upon her arm.

Running the country alone for a day had been taxing, even with the help of her council, for it was Éomer who knew Rohan in a way that she, try as she might make up for it in poring over history and geography books, could not.

And she already missed him by her side. His steady presence in the court was reassuring, his humor, when it came out, a source of light. Lothíriel bit her lip, suddenly frightened. Until he had left this morning, she had not realized how she had grown to depend upon Éomer in a way that frightened her. Would she lose herself if she let herself go further?

Perhaps she should be glad that they would have time apart. She could occupy herself with running the kingdom in his absence – really learning about this strange country that still felt in many ways so inaccessible to her, the stranger queen enclosed in Meduseld. In doing so, she could forget about her own confused feelings for a while, until they sorted themselves out. Éomer's absence would likely be a blessing, she assured herself. Perhaps she was even now with child and could surprise him with good news when he returned, and they would have something else to think about. What was more, the hope of an heir would surely gladden the hearts of his – their – people as well.

However, in her husband's absence, she would not be surprised if the rejection he had bestowed upon her just days before would resurface. Fool that she was, she had almost forgotten herself. If they were now lovers as well as husband and wife, perhaps they were still no closer in reality than they had been before, though Éomer might be trying.

She could never lay a true claim to him, though she alone could take him to her bed. Well, that was not true, either, she thought. He could easily find another if he liked, though what would be the point if she provided enough to satisfy his wants, and clearly she did. Moreover, she had little fear that he would visit another woman's bed, even while away. He had too much of a sense of honor for that. And he truly did seem to care for her and to want her – but to what end, now?

At last, when her eyes began to close, Lothíriel pulled herself from the fireside and went to make ready for bed. Isemay was there to help her unlace her gown and would sleep in bed with her that night, for the air was too cold to sleep alone.

* * *

[A/N: I'm a horrible, horrible author. I leave you hanging for six months at a time. You are beautiful, beautiful reviewers. Love, GB]


	22. Apart

**22. Apart**

_My dearest Nee_,

_In my last letter, I wrote to tell you that I had become a queen and wife to Éomer of the Mark, but now I write to tell you of the life that I have come to find here in Rohan. Of course, I write more pressingly to inquire after your health and that of your coming child. I know it must not be too long now, and I fondly order you to write to me as soon as you are able after the child is born. As always give your letter to Amrothos and he will ensure that it reaches me safely. _

_I am sorry that I have not managed to write to you more often, in these past months, but I confess that I have been too out of sorts and anxious to think far beyond myself. Yet now that I am wed and crowned, life has settled into a pattern and in between my courtly duties I often find myself with ample time to miss you. _

_Do not think that I am unwell by these past sentences, for I do not suffer in any great way – Indeed, I find that I am happy. I am not as alone as I had feared that I would be in this strange new country. People have been as kind and as welcoming as the most amiable company in Gondor – indeed, I find those around me less assuming and far more frank and honest than most of the courtiers back home. I have found myself often in the company of the king's sister Éowyn, whom I find I am growing to love like the sister she now is (and the cousin that she is to become when she marries my cousin the Lord Faramir). I will be devastated to see her leave when she joins her betrothed in Ithilien, but heartened by the happiness I know she will find there. I have also befriended a young woman by the name of Brithwyn, a war widow who is now employed in the Golden Hall as a weaver and seamstress. Her younger sister is my chambermaid and I find that she is a sweet and eager girl, although sometimes overwhelming in her energy. She is a great comfort to me, though, when the hours grow dreary. So you see I am not so lonely, although I dearly miss your counsel and companionship, for no one here knows me as you do. Perhaps in time, when your babe has grown a little, you might make the journey, but for now correspondence by letter will have to suffice. But in any case I hope to pay a visit home to Dol Amroth within the year. _

_As for Éomer, I must tell you that I have learned not to fear him, or the life we would lead. While there has been, and perhaps always will be, a certain barrier between us, I find that we have become true companions. He is ever kind and attentive to me, and the solemn, proud man we saw in Dol Amroth, though still the same man, has proven to possess a laugh that brightens the room when he is in good spirits. He is at home in these halls and I find that he is quicker to smile as the days pass. He is quickly coming into his own as a kin. He possesses all the qualities necessary of a great ruler – kind, patient, perceptive and bold, and ever noble. He is determined to bring this broken and still-grieving country back together, as am I. _

_Forgive me if my quill runs away with my praise of him. I only wish to assure you that my respect for my husband is true and just, and that I have found that my life with him is satisfactory, even pleasant, although there have been difficulties in adjusting to it. The King and I have forged a friendship together. We have much in common that I could not immediately see. The loss of loved ones, the aftermath of having survived the war, finding our way as new rulers, and brighter things as well: a shared love of laughter and of family. As for the private aspects of marriage, I will say little here but it is much as you predicted. I have found enjoyment there that I had not expected would be mine to have. The nature of this marriage is at times confusing, other times as clear as day. He is gone now to Gondor on diplomatic mission, and I find I long deeply for his return._

_Do I adequately describe the way it is between us? Alas, I am not sure that I can, except to say that our relationship grows by the day. I do not dare expect the kind of love in this marriage that I dreamed of as a girl, but there is a quiet bond forging between us, and sometimes it crackles with the embers of a growing passion. Is this not better than that of which I dreamed? I know that a part of his heart may yet belong to another. Perhaps it always will. Still, I can say that I am content to be his, body and soul. _

_Nee, my ink is running dry and the candle is nearly out. I shall end this letter and send it in the morning if I can. My thoughts are ever with you, Ninniach. Please send my well-wishing and love to your husband and to the child that grows within you. If there is anything you require, do not hesitate to go to my family. I am ever eager for news of you and will await your letter._

_Always in affection,_

_Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, Wife of Éomer, Queen of Rohan_

Lothíriel set down her pen and folded the parchment, slipping into its envelope. She heated the sealing wax with the candle, poured a little on the envelope to close it and took the ring that was now her personal seal – a wedding gift from Amrothos – and pressed it into the wax. It left the imprint of a horse head surrounded by the wings of a swan. She smiled with satisfaction, but as her fingers left the parchment and she sat back in her chair, her heart grew heavier with longing. She took a sip of heady mulled wine and closed her eyes. How she missed Nee. How nice it would be to be home. Home in Dol Amroth. Not alone in what she supposed she ought to call home instead: Rohan.

Life at Meduseld with Éomer gone seemed somehow bleaker in the lingering darkness of winter. The last snow had mostly gone, but the ground was still frozen and hard, barren and harsh. Lothíriel languished for spring to come, for rain, for sunshine, for life to start again. Even her skin felt dry and parched, dead no matter how voraciously she tried to revive it with balms and oils. How she longed for the damp winter of Dol Amroth. A constant dull ache of homesickness for her family lined the pit of her stomach each day. She kept herself busy to pass the time. When she was not handling the affairs of the kingdom, she kept her promise to teach Isemay to read. Isemay was a bright and eager student, though she was easily frustrated. Still, her progress over the recent weeks was heartening.

Sometimes, Lothíriel went out riding with Éowyn, but her thoughts would always wander towards Éomer, wondering how he fared in Gondor, but mostly reflecting on their last ride together before his departure, when they had been so merry in the snow. Lothíriel clung to the sweet memory of those moments, and to the ones that had come after when they had made love. She still feared that somehow, Éomer's absence would erase the closeness they had forged, and that when he returned they would be as strangers.

Lothíriel felt very queer, these days, though she could not quite put her finger on what was different. Mostly she was just tired. She brushed it off as the strain of running the kingdom alone, always unsure of the decisions she made. Would Éomer be pleased with her? Éowyn's advice and input was sound, but still Lothíriel fretted. But tonight, the day's work was done and Lothíriel's head was spinning. She needed to sleep for the next day held many tasks to conquer. Lothíriel sighed and crawled into her empty bed, missing the warmth of her husband beside her.

* * *

The white-washed walls and turrets of Minas tirith were striking but Éomer, these past few weeks had worn on his patience. Peace negotiations with the wildsmen were moving slowly, although progress had been made. Elessar and his household were ever-welcoming and they had held back little in ensuring Éomer's comfort and enjoyment. But the white city, though it seemed to brim with a new life of which it had long been bereft, was still too formal, too constricting, for Éomer to feel at home. And after so long at war, of the constant travel and upheaval that had characterized his life over the past year, Éomer had found he wanted to be home, running the kingdom from his seat in the Golden Hall, not here, far from all he held close to him. Éomer sighed and chuckled at himself. Perhaps he had grown old when he had not been looking.

"You still brood, Éomer of the Riddermark," said a musical voice behind him. Smiling sheepishly, Éomer turned from his contemplation of the white city that spanned out below him and met Arwen Úndomiel's crystal grey gaze, which he knew before he looked would unsettle him, as it always did. She smiled at him serenely, and came to stand beside him, one hand resting on her belly, already big with child. "Tell me, what is it that bothers you?"

Éomer fought the urge to hide his eyes with his hand, so great was her beauty, even now that she was with child. He had argued with the dwarf Gimli over this very thing, the dwarf being of a firm mind that no one could pass the beauty of Arwen's grandmother, Galadriel. "Do you not have the Sight, Lady? Perhaps you might tell me."

She looked at him, her face impassively pristine, and reached out her hand to trace his brow. Éomer closed his eyes and shivered at her touch. After a moment, Arwen spoke. "When I See, it is not at my call," she said softly. "Yet still, I would probe your mind, should you be willing to answer my questions. Perhaps I can help."

Éomer shrugged his shoulders, feeling tongue-tied in her presence. "Perhaps."

"Our city does not please you?" she asked him gently. "Is there anything else you require?"

"No, please do not trouble yourself. Your hospitality has been exemplary. I have all that I need," Éomer protested, flushing visibly.

"I am sure we have not provided you all that you need," said the Evenstar ambiguously. Éomer thought he detected a teasing smile behind her eyes, but he could not be sure. The elven woman seemed to exist on another plane, with a depth far beyond his own. Indeed, when she looked at him, he felt that she could see far beyond his eyes and into his heart.

"All that you could provide, you have done," Éomer replied slowly. "I only find that certain things remind me more strongly of home, for you have done so well to make me feel at home."

"Is it our dark-haired women, then?" Arwen asked in abrupt directness. "Perhaps they remind you of someone else, someone you have left behind in Rohan?"

Éomer looked at her in surprise and said nothing, unable to speak. Yes, he did find himself thinking of Lothíriel with every dark head he saw, with each striking contrast of raven hair falling against alabaster skin… It was unsettling. He had not known how to handle missing her. Yes, he missed her, he thought silently with a wry inner smile. It was useless to fight it. The image of her descending the steps in a cloak and nightgown had haunted him since he left Rohan. The good-natured teasing of his men along the way had not helped matters.

Realizing that he had fallen into pensive silence, Éomer looked up to find the elven queen of Gondor looking at him with gentle amusement in her eyes. "Ah," she said. "So Lothíriel of Dol Amroth has forged a place in your heart in spite of your best efforts to keep her at a distance."

Éomer bowed his head noncommittally and turned away, looking out at the distant mountains, once so clouded and haloed in fiery red from Sauron's fires. How different they were now, a pale reminder of all that was lost and won. Lost and won... How fitting. Remembering Arwen beside him, he said simply, "My wife is a kind and strong woman and a good queen to Rohan. She has given new life to m- " he caught himself, having almost said, "Me." Éomer cleared his throat. "Meduseld."

"You must return to her, then, Éomer King," Arwen said sweetly, laughter in her musical voice. "And soon."

* * *

Lothíriel woke the next morning and felt queasy. The thought of breaking her fast repulsed her and at the smell of tea and fresh bread, she had the urge to vomit. Isemay found her mistress kneeling on the floor beside her washbasin, having vomited therein.

"You are unwell, my lady," Isemay cried in alarm. She rushed to her mistress' side and smoothed back her hair. Lothíriel nodded, her brow furrowed. She wanted to gag at the taste in her mouth.

"It came upon me so suddenly," she said, accepting Isemay's aid to stand. "I think I am all right now. I have been feeling rather odd of late. Perhaps I am overtired."

"Come lie down," Isemay said, taking her hands. "I will get you some water. Do you want me to send for someone? For Lady Éowyn?"

Lothíriel shook her head and thanked her as Isemay led her to the bed and helped her settle in. She sighed and settled back in bed, perplexed. "What is wrong with me?" she asked aloud. "I am seldom so ill."

Isemay returned with a cup of water and handed it her to drink. She stood there beside her, thought furrowing her brow. "When was the last time you had your monthlies, your Majesty?" she asked after a moment, matter-of-factly. "I know that it has been some time."

Lothíriel stared at her, trying to think, barely daring to take in the true meaning of Isemay's question. "I do not know," she said slowly, "I hadn't thought. Oh, Isemay… do you think it is so?" Saying this, she leaned forward to grip Isemay's hands. Suddenly all became clear - the sickness, the fatigue, the soreness of her muscles, the headaches, and the strange tenderness of her breasts.

Isemay blushed and lowered her eyes in respect, a smile growing on her lips. "I think you are with child, your majesty."

"Well," Lothíriel said, astonished. She laughed suddenly, a bubble of nervousness rushing up within her. She had thought long and hard about the prospect of bearing Éomer a son, but it had always seemed far off in the hazy future. Now that she might actually be with child, it was a different matter indeed.

"If it be so, then I will be the most happy woman in Rohan," she said, but inside she was not so sure. She felt sick again. "Isemay do not speak of this to anyone until I am sure it is so."

_Oh, Éomer, stay away a while longer. Oh Éomer, come home._

* * *

Éomer stepped forward to bid Aragorn and his lady a warm farewell, clasping his friend's shoulder and bowing low before the Queen. Arwen regarded him with a smile and extended her hand for him to kiss. Éomer met her eyes briefly and looked away. He was sure that she could see into his thoughts, see straight through him. He was not sure he liked it. Realizing he was scowling slightly, he formed his lips into a smile.

"I take my leave of you with regret," he said to the royal couple, "But I will return in - what, two months? To bring my sister to wed Lord Faramir, and for that I am glad."

"On behalf of my country, I will be honored to receive the lady Éowyn," Aragorn replied with a true smile that spread over his face. "For I have long wished your sister joy."

"As have I," said Éomer with a swallow through gritted teeth, trying to hide the involuntary clenching of his jaw that occurred whenever Aragorn spoke of his sister. Old wounds ran deep, and though Éowyn swore that her love for Faramir far outshone in her heart the love she had once held for Aragorn, Éomer could not forget the pain she had born with such grace.

"I know that you have," Aragorn said, looking at him strangely. Éomer stared at his friend, feeling his hackles start to rise.

Arwen cleared her throat serenely. When both men looked at her, startled, she laughed merrily. The white fur of her hood brought out the color in her cheeks, which were pink from the cold, and Éomer could not help but crack a smile. "I think we are all in agreement here, gentlemen," she said. "Make haste in your return to Minas tirith, Éomer King, with your sister and lovely wife in tow. I have long desired to speak with them both and will not rest until they are here. I am starved for female company in this city of stern, over-proud men."

Éomer and Aragorn looked at each other with raised eyebrows and simultaneously burst out laughing. The tension had lightened. "Well, my friend," Éomer said when he recovered. "I must go to return to my homeland and begin these new days of peace with the wildsmen."

Aragorn nodded. "And new days of peace for us all," he said, taking Arwen's hand in his own. She smiled at him and laid a hand on her belly.

"Peace indeed."


	23. Home To You

23. Home to You

"Éomer, I am with child," Lothíriel sighed to her reflection. No, that was not quite right. "Éomer, my lord, I am with child?"

She stared at her abdomen, which the healer Freyawyn had assured her was indeed housing a growing spark of life, and furrowed her brow. She found this idea difficult to wrap her mind around. Turning sideways, she studied her reflection. She was not yet showing many physical signs of being pregnant, although she thought she looked a little bigger than before.

She both feared and longed for Éomer's return. She missed him terribly but she knew that she would have to face reality and tell him when he returned. And what would he say? They had spoken of a child, that night before he left, and he had said he would rejoice if she was carrying his heir. She herself had said she wanted to give him one - but it had not seemed real, somehow, only an empty promise. Now here she was, pregnant, with the king's son, or daughter. The future of Rohan, of Middle Earth.

What if Éomer did not take the news well? Or worse, what if he, having fulfilled his half of the duty to produce an heir, set her aside and ceased to treat her as a wife? What if he did not want to be a father? What if she proved to be a terrible mother? Lothíriel wanted to scream out of frustration. She was not ready to bear a child, and yet here she was.

Éomer would be on his way home by now, she knew. Hopefully the peace negotiations had gone well. Perhaps he would not have to go away again so soon. And the next time he left, she would be with him, on the way to Éowyn and Faramir's wedding.

Lothíriel sighed. She hoped Éomer would not forbid her to go. Freyawyn had told her that it was all right to travel within the first few months of childbearing, after all. As long as she was careful… Maybe she should wait to tell her husband until they were well on the road, she thought with an evil grin. He would have no choice then but to continue onwards. But surely he would not prevent her from going to the wedding. Would he?

She needed some new occupation, she thought. Her fears were irrational. However, there were plenty of families who needed some extra help this long winter, and she and some of the other women would be assembling parcels of food and supplies that would be distributed among the Westfold. And that would be work enough for the day, and it meant gossip, chatter and laughter, not brooding over husbands whose behavior one could never predict.

* * *

A singing arrow hurtling towards them caused Firefoot to leap to the side and Éomer to yell loudly. It missed its target and embedded itself in a tree behind him. Éomer scarcely had time to process his near brush with death when someone from his company yelled, "Dunlendings!" and a band of wildsmen emerged from the trees. Éomer swore angrily and drew his sword, yelling at his men to hold steady and defend themselves.

"So much for peace," he muttered under his breath, and hacked the first one to reach him cleanly in two.

The fight was short-lived, for although the wildsmen were many, they were no match on foot for the Rohirrim. They had been given the advantage from the trees, but as soon as they were in the open, the horsemen could run them down. Had they used more arrows they might have prevailed. Still, damage had been done. Éomer looked around to assess the situation.

"Help the wounded the best you can for now. Put pressure on wounds, bandage them with whatever we have, splint fractures," Éomer said numbly to his men, sheathing his sword and looking at the sky peering through the trees. It warned of bad weather ahead. He dismounted Firefoot and gave him a pat of thanks. "But make haste. We must ride for Edoras."

Not far from him, Éothain silently sank to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Blood was pooling beneath his fingers and dripping onto the snow. Éomer's heart stopped and he rushed to his friend, supporting him and softening his fall. "Éothain."

"A wildsman's poor aim," Éothain gasped, his breathing ragged. "He missed my heart, poor bloke. I will be fine."

"How deep?" Éomer asked in a mask of calm, laying his hands over Éothain's to put pressure on the wound. There was so much blood – had the attacker hit an artery, and would his friend bleed out before his eyes?

"A nick," Éothain responded. "I think it looks worse than it is. He's dead." He let out a hiss of pain as he jerked his head to indicate the direction of the dead man.

Éomer fought to smile. "Good. We need bandages," he called. "Hold on, Éothain. We will fix you up." He gripped Éothain's unharmed shoulder with the hand that was not pressing on the wound and met his friend's eyes sternly. "Don't you dare bleed to death on me."

"Never. Not since you asked, my liege." Éothain grinned wryly and fought to laugh. Éomer took his friend's ever-present sense of humor as a good sign, because he felt he had no choice to imagine otherwise, and began to take care of the wound.

When they finally set forth, the wounded treated as best they could and held on horseback in the saddles of the unwounded, heavy snowflakes were starting to fall.

* * *

Lothíriel looked out the window that same evening with a nervous heart. Snow was falling down in what seemed like torrents, and her husband was somewhere out there in it this night. She turned to Brithwyn, who was seated by the fire. "I am worried," she said softly. It was a relief to say the words out loud.

Brithwyn put down her sewing and looked up at her with a reassuring look. "Your husband the King has ridden through worse weather, my lady. They cannot be far now. If they have stopped to wait out the weather, well then, they will surely be here before the end of tomorrow. I am sure it will be clear soon enough."

With a shaky sigh, Lothíriel nodded and tried to believe her friend. "Yes, surely," she repeated. Still, there was something sinister about the air this evening – it had dropped to bitter temperatures, cold enough to cause one's bones to ache, and now this storm of snow. If the men could not find shelter, they would likely freeze, or get lost from the trail. Lothíriel had heard men say that this was the harshest winter Rohan had faced in twenty years. To have cold and snow like this so late in the season was unusual. Lothíriel wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around her body and sank down beside the fire. There was nothing she could do, now.

* * *

"My lord King, I fear we have no choice but to stop," a man named Hollis said, riding up beside Éomer. The snow and the extra weight of the wounded made their going precariously slow. "We will soon no longer be able to see the road - Nor can we see the mountains to the west that guide our route, for the snow is too thick and it is too dark. I fear the horses will soon be able to go no further with riders on their backs."

Éomer closed his eyes and held up a hand against the sting of the snow that was now blowing in his face. Éothain, somehow still conscious, shifted before him. Éomer had insisted on taking his friend in his own saddle. He knew Hollis was perhaps right. But the wounded... they needed to get to Edoras, or other shelter. He swore quietly, his heart growing heavy with dread.

_Oh Lothíriel, let me get home to you._

He blinked at the thought that had just branded itself in his mind and turned his attention back to his men. "We cannot stop. We must press on, or the wounded will die."

"All of us will die if we do not stop," protested Hollis. "My liege, we will be lost."

"We are not so very far from Edoras," Éomer said, looking at him witheringly. "If we press on straight ahead, we will come to the stream and we can follow it on foot. The horses may carry the wounded. It is our only hope to save these men, and I will not stop. Furthermore, if we stop, we may be stranded here, perhaps for days."

"My lord king, I - "

"Silence!" Éomer ordered loudly, then lowered his voice in forced calmness. "We will not have a chance if we stop, Hollis. The wounded will surely freeze to death and I will not bring that upon them if I can help it. We could be marooned in a snow cave for weeks. To press on is our only chance. You must put your faith in the King and the good graces of the Valar, now. Trust in me. I will get you home. Ride on."

_Lothíriel, I will get home to you._

* * *

Lothíriel sat up in the chair with a start, her heart pounding from the dream she had been having. She rubbed her eyes in confusion. How long had she been asleep? What time was it?

"What is it?" asked Brithwyn, who had been dozing on the rug. Isemay and Éowyn were asleep in Lothíriel's bed. The women had stayed together for warmth and comfort, trying to ease their minds from the thought of the men out in the storm.

"I dreamed..." Lothíriel paused. What had she dreamed? Éomer... bright white snow, and drops of blood staining it red... his hands covered in blood... Remembering, she gasped in horror and sickening fear and looked at Brithwyn. "I think something is wrong. Something is very wrong. We must do something."

"What can we do?" Brithwyn asked, sitting up.

"Light every candle and lamp in Edoras and keep them burning in the windows of every home down into the valley. If the men are out, they will need to see where they are going." Lothíriel said, moving in haste to rouse the others. "Brithwyn, rouse the servants. Éowyn, Isemay, wake up and get dressed. We must do all in our power to make sure our King gets home."

* * *

The snow was falling thickly, though for the time being it had slowed, allowing a little more visibility. It fell wet upon Éomer's face above the scarf he had pulled over his mouth and nose, which was now frozen solid from his breath and stuck to his beard. They were on foot now, leading the horses, who balked and stumbled, slipping in the snow. They had found the stream and were precariously following it, ever watchful for a dip in the ground that could send someone tumbling into icy, half-frozen water. Éomer glanced behind him. Éothain was swaying in Firefoot's saddle, though he was firmly tied onto the horse's back and would not fall. Éomer grimaced and slapped his friend hard on the leg, rousing him.

"Do not go to sleep, Éothain," he ordered. If Éothain slept, he would freeze to death. "Sing me something."

"You'll regret it," Éothain slurred.

"Sing!" Éomer repeated.

Éothain obliged, launching into a slurred, half-mumbled version of one of the bawdiest tavern songs he knew. Éomer could not help to chuckle, the song a glimmer of light in the darkness. They needed hope now. Careful not to lose his footing, Éomer joined in and urged his men to sing too.

_I once knew a filly who lived in the Wold_

_her tail was bushy and her flanks were broad_

_and her gait was high-strung and her coat was gold_

_but she'd never seen a stallion with such a large rod..._

"My lord, look!" yelled a man, interrupting their bawdy ballad. Éomer squinted ahead. Was that - ? A flickering light? No. It could not be. But there it was again. A small pinpoint of light glowing stronger in the darkness.

"By the Maeras," he breathed. Raising his voice, he yelled, "Keep pressing on, men! We are almost to shelter. We are almost home."

* * *

[A/N: Not such a long wait, this time, eh? I promise to be better. I had fun writing that little ditty as well. Thank you for your continued support. ~GB]


	24. No, Stay

24. No, Stay

Lothíriel had ordered the guards to go out and make sure all the candles were lit in the houses. She had also asked them to bring back all the villagers who they found were inadequately prepared for the blizzard so that they could weather the storm in Meduseld. While many people could stay in their own houses with strong walls and roofs to protect from the wind, she feared for those who were worse off. She was glad that she had done so, for there were plenty of elderly folks and small children who had come in shivering from the cold. Blankets had to be found and straw laid out to make beds for everyone, and Lothíriel and Éowyn and the servants were mad at work to make sure everyone was cared for.

At last, at Éowyn's bidding, she sat down to rest a moment. After all, Éowyn had said, it was no good for a woman in her condition to overexert herself. However, no sooner had she sat down then a pounding on the door caused everyone who had gathered in Meduseld to start to their feet. Lothíriel closed her eyes, unable to breathe, caught between fear and relief. The guards heaved the doors open and in spilled a flurry of snow and heavy dark shapes, nearly collapsing on the ground.

Lothíriel shuddered, her knees giving out in relief. Éomer was at the forefront, though barely recognizable because his garments were covered in snow, his beard frozen. He was clutching to him another man who could barely seem to support half his own weight.

Éomer was scanning the hall and when he laid eyes on her, he seemed unable to look away, for disbelief or for relief. Lothíriel wanted to sob for joy, and she rushed to him, crying his name. Wordlessly, Éomer held out his free arm and pulled her against him clumsily. Her cheek met his frozen, wet clothing and shocked her.

"You're so cold," she whispered, reaching up to cup his icy cheek.

"Lothíriel," he said patiently, catching the hand and removing it from his face. "Wait." He pushed her away gently, and Lothíriel hazily remembered the man her husband was still supporting. Why had no one come to take care of this man? This man was Éothain, and blood stained the front of his clothing, menacing against the whiteness of the snow. "Oh," she gasped, and grabbed Éothain's other arm. Immediately others came to help, roused from their stupor. "What happened?"

"He is wounded," Éomer said wearily. "Badly. We were ambushed by wildings. There are others...Lothíriel, I fear my feet are badly frozen." He looked at her and she saw fear in his eyes. The sight chilled Lothíriel as if she had also been through a blizzard, but she was determined not to falter.

"It's all right," Lothíriel said with forced serenity, drawing a shaky breath and pulling her wits together. "Everything will be all right. Brithwyn, Isemay, Alfwyn and Aldreda, bring hot water and clean linens and more blankets and someone - you there - send for Freyawyn the healer. Guards, help these men to sit or lie down and build up the fires. Remove their outer clothing – all that is wet. Wrap them up well. They must get warm."

"Should we not aid the king first?" replied one of the guards uncertainly, starting forward.

"No," Éomer protested, waving him off. "I am not wounded. You must help the wounded. Éothain... he has lost so much blood."

"I will tend to the king," Lothíriel said soothingly to the men. "Please,you must go help Éothain. I will be there when I can. I have experience in caring for wounded men. Éomer, come sit." She guided her husband to the bench. "Are you hurt?"

"Quickly," he said to her, his voice low. "I am not wounded but I fear my feet are badly frozen, Lothíriel," he said with an air of forced bravery. "They are numb. You must remove my boots and we will see."

Lothíriel knelt to pull off his boots and peel off his socks. Éowyn, arriving on the scene - she had been off tending to villagers when the men had returned - knelt beside her and removed the other boot. The task was no easy one. Lothíriel bit her lips when she saw his feet.

"They are white and red, but not yet black from frostbite," said Éowyn quickly. "We must rub his feet until the blood comes back in, and he must stamp them hard. It will hurt like nothing else, Éomer."

Lothíriel braced herself and began to rub his foot vigorously.

"There is still hope, Éomer. Do you feel them tingling? We must get the blood moving again." She smiled up at him bravely. "Wait. Get up, stamp your feet! And take off your wet, frozen clothes and outer things, for heaven's sake!"

"I will be thankful for the pain," Éomer said through gritted teeth, complying with her order. Éowyn stood to help him with his clothes. "Hurt means they are still alive."

"I am thankful you are still alive," Lothíriel retorted, and bade him sit again so she could continue rubbing his feet. "Do you feel anything?"

Éomer winced and nodded. "They are on fire," he hissed and stamped his feet. "We were ambushed by wildsmen, Lothíriel. If they were loyal to the Dunlendings with which we treated, we were betrayed."

"How many wounded?" asked Éowyn to steer him away from anger towards practical matters.

"Five. Four. We lost one," Éomer said sadly, "trying to make it to Edoras. He didn't make it. We had to leave him in the snow."

"I am sorry," whispered Lothíriel soberly, looking up at him with tenderness that he did not see. His eyes were somewhere else, far away. With a pang, Lothíriel returned her gaze on Éomer's feet. Beneath the ministrations from her hands, color was slowly returning and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

"You will keep your feet, Éomer," she whispered, and, moved, she reached up and brushed her knuckles across his cheek, drawing his gaze back to hers. She smiled. "All will be well."

"Lothíriel," he said, catching her fingers in his hand and kissing them, but quickly letting go. "We must not dally. There are others who need your aid. Éowyn too. I will help you where I can."

"No, you should rest," Lothíriel said quickly, and turned to assess the situation. Éowyn was already walking to aid a man with a head wound and gash on the face. There was a man with a badly broken arm – it looked like it would require a healer's expertise that she did not have. A nasty wound on the leg, which she could deal with. . Probably frostbitten fingers and toes. And Éothain.

As Lothíriel's eyes fell on him, she saw Brithwyn, returning with clean linens for bandages, rush to him with a cry.

Lothíriel went to them. "Brithwyn, would you fetch boiled water and clean rags?" she asked, seeing how Brithwyn's face whitened at the sight of Éothain's bloodied clothes. Brithwyn nodded quickly and went to fetch them.

"Éothain, my friend."

Éothain jerked his head in Brithwyn's direction and winced. "She is a changeable one," he said through gritted teeth.

How was he still awake, Lothíriel wondered. He was deathly white. "What happened, Éothain?" she asked, to keep him talking.

"A wildsman tried to kill me," Éothain said with a ghost of a smile. "I killed him first. Will I die now in retribution?"

Lothíriel laughed softly. "If you have made it this far, it is a good sign."

Brithwyn returned with clean water and rags and Lothíriel poured a little over her hands to clean them. "Now let me see."

She peeled away the makeshift bandages and sucked in her breath. It was a ragged wound and deep, but the bleeding was very slow. Probably the cold had saved his life. She wondered if there would be lasting damage to the muscles and tendons within. It would need to be sewn, surely. She did not have that skill. However, the greatest danger was infection.

"Let me clean it," she said to Éothain, dipping a clean cloth into the boiling water. "I will be gentle but it will surely sting."

"I have had worse," said Éothain bravely but he cried out in strained tones at the touch of the water on the wound.

"Grip my hand," offered Brithwyn softly, startling Lothíriel. She had not noticed that Brithwyn had lingered, but then of course she would have.

Éothain looked at the woman uncertainly, but took the hand that was offered, closing his eyes as Lothíriel proceeded to tend to him. Lothíriel met Brithwyn's eyes and mouthed, "Thank you."

Lothíriel felt a hand on her shoulder. When she looked up at the owner, she found Éomer. Clearly he had not heeded her order to rest. At her questioning look, he nodded in the direction of the door. Freyawyn, the healer, had finally arrived and was proceeding to order men and servants about. Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief. All would be well.

Freyawyn came straight to her and Éothain. "Where is the wound?" the old, dignified woman asked gruffly. Lothíriel blinked in astonishment at her businesslike manner, and stepped aside so the healer could do her work. She took Éothain's other hand.

"It needs sewing." the woman said, looking at the wound and touching the area around it gently. Éothain winced and sucked in his breath. "I need a hot needle and thread."

"I have it," said Brithwyn, reaching into the pocket of the apron she wore. Freyawyn looked at her appraisingly, her piercing eyes boring deep.

"Have you steady hands?" Freyawyn asked her. "Skill with delicate stitches?"

Brithwyn nodded, swallowing visibly. She glanced at Lothíriel, who nodded reassuringly.

"I only ask because my hands are not so deft as they used to be," said the older woman, holding up her hands, which were indeed swollen and gnarled. "Can you?"

"Sew him up…?" finished Brithwyn uncertainly. Freyawyn nodded.

"Don't ask that of her," protested Éothain, his voice clenched in pain was he struggled to lift his head. Brithwyn looked at him, seeming to gather her strength, and laid a hand on his forehead tenderly.

"Hush. Don't speak, Éothain," she said, and met Freyawyn's eyes. "I will do it, if you guide me."

Éothain closed his eyes in pain or relief as the women set about tending him. Brithwyn followed Freyawyn's guidance, her jaw set and her eyebrows furrowed as she focused on the task. Before moving on to tend to the next wounded man, Lothíriel noticed with a pang how Éothain's gaze lingered on Brithwyn's face.

* * *

From across the room, Éomer saw his wife start to sway as she stood from tending one of the men who was less seriously injured. He was there in an instant to catch her as her knees gave way, holding her upright against him. How he himself was still standing, he did not know. But he had more experience with pushing forward in exhaustion, as in battle.

She opened her tired eyes and looked up at him as if in confusion.

"I've got you," he said soothingly. "You should go to bed, Lothíriel. The men are taken care of."

"As should you," she said warningly. Éomer grinned and kissed her brow. It was good to hold her again, he thought privately.

"There is nothing I want more than to go to bed," he said with a sigh. It was all he wanted, and with her in his arms. Everything seemed very clear to him in that tired moment.

Her fingers coming to rest on his sleeve distracted him. "You're bleeding," she exclaimed. "Or you were."

Éomer looked at the dried blood and the tear in the fabric on his upper arm. "A scratch," he said lightly, for that was all it was.

"I must clean and dress it, nevertheless," she said, ignoring him. "Sit."

"May we clean it elsewhere?" asked Éomer wearily, wanting to escape the chaos of the main hall. His head was pounding and he wanted to be alone, or alone with her. Lothíriel looked at his tired face and nodded. Leaning on one another, they made their way out of the hall to their bedchamber.

* * *

You did well tonight," said Éomer when they were at last alone. Lothíriel turned and raised her eyes to him and knew that though she was weary, her eyes shone with unabashed happiness. She looked at her husband, who looked - and smelled - very much a wildsman himself, but in good spirits for a man who had braved a blizzard to make it home.

"Did I?" she smiled. She could have spent a month gazing at his face.

"You did Rohan proud," he added, but did nothing more, only sank into the chair as if too tired to think to undress or climb into bed. Lothíriel went to him and knelt before him to remove his boots, suddenly shy but desperate to tell him how frightened she had been.

"I thought... Éomer, I thought I might have lost you," she whispered, a lump in her throat. She stared at his knees, too shy to look at him. If he did not take her in his arms right this minute, she thought she might run out of patience. "I should have known better," she added. "I will never be rid of you."

At that, he chuckled and cupped her chin in his hand. Lothíriel froze and shivered at the long-awaited touch. When she finally raised her eyes to look at him, Éomer was gazing at her with a look that pierced her to the core. She inhaled sharply, and he raised her up and pulled her to him with one smooth motion so that she was sitting on his lap. Wordlessly, he brushed her hair off of her forehead and ran his thumb across her cheek, studying her face as if he could not believe his eyes.

"Oh Lothíriel," he whispered emphatically. "Do you have any idea what I went through to get home to you?"

Lothíriel let out a shaky sigh and nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. Tears of joy. Home to her. "I have an idea," she managed to say. "Oh! But your arm."

She left his lap to her own chagrin. "Remove your shirt, I must dress the "scratch" as you call it."

Good-naturedly, Éomer complied. She watched hungrily out of the corner of her eye as he peeled his shirt off off. Returning with the clean rags, water and dressings she had brought back to the room with her, she examined his arm. It was just a scratch, as he said. But he could not risk infection, and surely it stung when she cleaned it. They both were silent as she took care of the wound, applying salve to it and wrapping it in dressings.

"Now come, you must sleep," she said briskly, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. "You can bathe in the morning. You smell like a warg but there's nothing to be done about it now. "

"How would you know what a warg smells like?" mumbled Éomer good-naturedly as he leaned on her shoulders.

"I don't. But I have brothers, and they are surely worse," Lothíriel replied, turning back the covers. Éomer took of his remaining clothes and climbed naked into bed. Lothíriel pulled the covers over him, tucking him in like she would a child. He looked up at her through weary eyes, lifted a hand to brush her cheek.

"Stay with me?" he asked softly.

Lothíriel blushed. She had not been expecting him to ask. Also, she had been rising early every morning racked with childbearing sickness. She did not want him to know just yet, but if he woke up when she was ill, he would surely guess. Or worry and question, and then...

"I thought you would sleep more soundly in a bed all to yourself," she replied evasively, laying a hand on his chest and making a motion as if to go.

"No, stay," he repeated, taking her hand and kissing the fingertips. "Although I suppose we have spent enough nights apart that one more would not hurt. Still, I want - " he caught himself formally, "I would like it if you stayed."

Lothíriel looked at him and suppressed a smile of mingled joy and amusement. "Then I will stay," she said tenderly and stood to make ready for bed. She would just be careful to rise early and not disturb him. When she had undressed down to her chemise, she climbed carefully into bed beside her husband, who appeared to have fallen asleep in the moments it had taken her to undress. Though she too was dead tired, she was too happy to sleep. Content to lie there gazing at Éomer, she laid her head on the pillow and studied the planes and curves of his face.

She was surprised when he reached out with a strong arm and drew her close to him, cupping her body with his own. His lips met her ear and whispered, "Goodnight, Lothíriel mine."

* * *

[A/N: I have to say, I'm way too eager to wait to post right now, hence the quick updates. Making up for lost time!

But I have a question for you all: If I bumped up the rating of the story to M, would that deter you, readers? I feel like the relationship between É. and L. keeps maturing and I keep writing scenes that I am very hesitant to post under the T rating, so I try to modify them but feel like it might be time to change the rating so I can be more free with my writing. But I also know this story has been going on a long time as a T -rated fic and I don't want to disappoint anyone. Let me know in your reviews how you stand with this decision and I will make a choice one way or the other.

I started this story when I was still in high school and now I am a senior in college, so my own understanding of human relationships has matured quite a bit... ~ GB]


	25. Éothain

25. Éothain

Éomer woke late to an empty bed. His muscles protested as he raised himself up and the effort was nearly too much for him. Giving in, he collapsed on the bed again and closed his eyes. It was unsettling to realize that his body no longer bounced back quite as quickly as it had when he was younger. He did not feel that old, but he had noticed in the months since the war that he was no longer in his youth, but a grown man who was worn around the edges. Strong but no longer infallible.

The sound of the door opening and closing startled him from his stupor. He blinked as the blurry form that entered took shape and came into focus.

"You're awake," said Lothíriel breezily, setting down a tray of food at the foot of the bed. "And before midday! I have won my wager with your sister."

"My head aches," grumbled Éomer as he sat up again, barely processing the meaning of her words. His voice was ragged. "_Béma!_"

"Here, drink," said Lothíriel, pressing a cup of water to his parched lips. He found that her cool fingertips against his brow soothed him even more than the cup of water.

"Thank you," he told her, eyes closing in relief.

"There is food, and afterwards a bath," she said abruptly, "Are you hungry?"

Éomer shrugged. He did not feel ready to eat, but he picked up a hunk of bread and bit into it half-heartedly. "Have you been up long?" he asked his wife. He was amazed that she seemed so chipper, after all that she had done for him and the men the night before, and before that, making beds for the villagers taking refuge in their home. He had sensed her exhaustion was almost equal to his own, and yet here she was.

"I have been checking on the wounded," Lothíriel said, smoothing her hair with her hand. "They are all doing well. Éothain looks fine, though he will be weak for a time having lost so much blood. And Brithwyn has not left his side," she added with a sudden conspiratorial smile, "When I found them, she was fast asleep on the ground next to him. "

"She is probably trying to atone for her guilt," muttered Éomer darkly. When he looked up from his food, Lothíriel was frowning at him.

"What ails you, husband?"

"Nothing," snapped Éomer, "Well, everything. The damned wildlings. The weather. My aching head."

Lothíriel stood and went to look out the window, her hands on her hips. Her tongue made a clicking sound. "I think there are many things to rejoice in, Éomer King."

"Such as?" Éomer asked, strangely annoyed at her all-knowing attitude.

"Your safe return, for one," she said, turning to look at him incredulously. "The well-being of your men, after all the odds against you. A wife who brings you breakfast in bed!" She turned back around to face the window. "Honestly, Éomer King!"

Éomer lowered his head in acceptance, chastened. "I am sorry, Lothíriel," he said. "I spoke in thinking only of myself and my troubles, not of the many blessings there are to be thankful for." He chuckled a little at himself. "Especially the wife who brings me breakfast in bed."

Lothíriel turned to look at him and this time she was smiling. She met his eyes and held the gaze. "So tell me, Éomer, what is it that ails you?"

"Come here," he said with a sigh, extending an arm. "And I will."

When she sat down beside him, he slid his hand around her waist and pulled her down to lie against him, her head on his chest.

"I feel old," he said into her hair, still damp from bathing. He had forgotten how good it smelled when she was fresh from the bath, like lavender and thyme. A tremor of release ran through him at the comfort it was to hold her.

"Is that all?" Lothíriel said with a smile in her voice.

Éomer shrugged and pulled her closer, covering the graceful hand that rested lightly on his chest with his own. "Is that not enough?"

"I will not let you feel sorry for yourself," said Lothíriel firmly, raising herself up on her knees to look at him. "You are alive and well - and here."

"Yes," he said with a smile, amused. in spite of himself. "I am here."

"And filthy. You need a bath," she said suddenly, breaking away from the moment with a businesslike flourish.

Éomer groaned. The thought of cleanliness was a pleasant one, but the thought of protesting muscles was enough to deter him. "Oh, no…later."

"Oh yes, Éomer king. You will take a bath. I heated the water myself," said Lothíriel, her hands on her hips. He looked at her skeptically. "Yes! By myself. And it will be cold before long."

"If you are so keen on the idea of bathing, do so yourself," retorted Éomer, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. "I will go back to sleep."

"You will not dare," she exclaimed, taking the covers and ripping them off of him. "You will bathe, if I have to wash you myself. Out of bed!"

Éomer turned his head to look at her and, at the look on her face, decided that to defy his wife in this would mean he would pay for it for weeks. Grumbling, he sat up with creaking bones and limped to the bathtub in the adjoining room.

The water soothed his muscles immediately but he refused to let Lothíriel see that she had won, and he glowered at her. She smiled serenely and held out a sponge and bar of soap.

He smiled back at her innocently and shook his head. "You said you wished to wash me yourself."

"I said - " Lothíriel let out a sigh of frustration and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Fine." She pushed up her sleeves and knelt beside the tub. "Lean forward," she ordered, and wetting the sponge began to scrub his back.

Éomer grinned at her impatience and closed his eyes, thoroughly enjoying seeing her with feathers ruffled. She was in a state this morning to match his own. He recalled the morning he had left, when she had all but pranced down the steps of Meduseld clad in a nightgown and little else. The same look had been in her eyes then. The memory, coupled with the feel of Lothíriel's hands and the sight of her bending over him, aroused him slightly. He looked at her sidelong, wondering what she was thinking. She was scrubbing his chest and arms now, her eyes fixed on her task, but Éomer thought he detected a glimmer in her eye that made him wonder what would happen if he pursued the course his mind had set on.

Éomer shifted abruptly, causing soapy water to splash out of the tub and onto Lothíriel's front. She gasped and slapped him on the shoulder, knocking the soap into the tub as she did so. "Forgive me," Éomer said innocently, "My muscles spasmed."

"Hand me the soap," ordered Lothíriel, without a blink. Éomer grinned at her.

"Get it yourself," he retorted innocently. He knew exactly where the soap had ended up and flicked his eyes in that direction. Catching his implication, Lothíriel's cheeks colored with a rosy blush.

"First you splash my gown and then you tell me to fish for the soap," she exclaimed. "I would be shoulder deep in that tub before I found it."

"You are the one who insisted on bathing me," Éomer replied serenely. "I will have no part of it."

"Fine," Lothíriel whispered sweetly in his ear. Éomer watched in amusement as she plunged her hand into the water, groping around for the soap. When her search lead to no avail, Éomer caught her hand in his own and brought it to his chest, then down to his belly and beyond. His eyes half-closed, he watched Lothíriel's lips part and her muscles tense in anticipation even before her hand reached its destination. When her fingers gently tightened around him, he let out a telling moan and opened his eyes to look at her. Her gaze was fixed on his face, her eyes burning and her cheeks high with color. Her lips were inches from his own.

"There," he said gently and reached up to bring her down to kiss him. Their lips met hungrily, and Éomer strained upwards to get closer to her. Frustrated by the tub that separated them, he grabbed his wife around the waist and pulled her into the water, clothes and all. She shrieked and struggled against him, her skirts tangling around them both and making the situation even worse. Half the bathwater ended up on the floor.

When they both recovered, Lothíriel looked rather like a drowned cat as she looked down at him haughtily from her position on his lap. Éomer grinned at her glowering expression and locked her tightly in his arms. "My lady," he said. "I think you are overdressed for this occasion."

"You planned it all," accused Lothíriel, attempting to free herself from the prison of his arms.

"Not all of it," mused Éomer, holding her even tighter to him. Her lips, still red from their kiss, taunted him. "I did not plan for you to knock the soap in the water. It gave me the perfect opportunity."

"The opportunity for what?" scoffed Lothíriel, still struggling.

"To do this," Éomer replied, raking his hands languidly down her spine. Lothíriel sucked in her breath at the touch. Her squirming ceased abruptly. "And this," he slid a hand from her ear down her throat and around the curve of her breast down to her belly through the wet fabric of her gown. Her legs on either side of him tightened around his thighs and she closed her eyes almost involuntarily. Éomer grinned and took his hand away as it reached her waist.

"And?" she breathed in impatient anticipation.

"And this," he said, straining up to kiss her mouth as his hands found the wet lacings on the back of her bodice and deftly undid them. He wanted to be skin to skin with her in the steaming water, and the way that she rocked her hips over his told him that she felt the same way. When the garment was loosened, he impatiently lifted it over her head and threw the heavy, sodden fabric across the room. Lothíriel remained in her silk under-gown, the fabric nearly transparent in its wetness. It clung appealingly to her body. With a hand on her back, Éomer brought her torso forward to kiss her breasts, running his tongue across her nipples through the fabric. Lothíriel moaned again, clutching his head in her hands. With his free hand, Éomer caressed her spine and the base of her neck before traveling down to her buttocks, urging her closer to him.

"Oh Éomer," she breathed, tilting his head up upwards to meet her mouth. From her position of power above him, she was able to take control of the kiss, her tongue slipping into his mouth to explore it delicately. Éomer let her lead, interested in this new role she had claimed. He ground his hips softly against her own, his hands gripping her waist, but he decided he would wait to take her until she chose to initiate it.

With a sound of impatience, Lothíriel broke the kiss and stripped off her last articles of clothing. At last free of such barriers, she looked down at him with a look of complete power and trailed her fingers down his body to take him in her hands again. He closed his eyes and let out a groan of contentment as she stroked him, her eyes fixated on his face as if to watch the very effect her touch had on him. He looked back at her, tracing his hands lightly over her buttocks and thighs, finally ending up between her legs. She pressed against his hand with a sigh and whispered, "I want you."

"Then you may have me,' he said in her ear, and thrust upwards to slip into her. She let out a soft moan that answered his guttural groan of pleasure, and began to move over him him, watching his face through half-closed eyes. He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled gently, enjoying the way her breath quickened and the way she let her heightening pleasure show.

"I have missed you," she breathed in his ear when they collapsed together against the side of the bathtub after reaching the peak of their pleasure.

He smiled, and kissed her shoulder, turning her to face away from him so that her back leaned against his chest, his body forming a cradle for hers. "And I you."

* * *

Lothíriel smiled up at Éomer much later, from where she lay in his arms, her body singing. Most of the water had ended up on the floor earlier and she blushed to think of Isemay, or whoever it was, cleaning up the mess they had made. But neither had cared in the heat of the moment, nor long after, when they had made love again in the comfort of their bed. Éomer had taken the lead this time, his touch not rough yet firm and controlling. His hands had raked her body, holding her where he wanted her as he thrust deep inside of her, filling the ache that he had left behind in his absence, until she lost control of herself, making her pleasure known to him.

Now she wondered if all of Meduseld had heard their passion. It was worse now that one third of Edoras was within their walls. With that terrifying thought, she groaned and buried her face against her husband.

"Why are you hiding your face in my shoulder like that?" Éomer murmured a moment later, a hand coming to rest on her hair.

"I think all of the kingdom knows that we were just …" Lothíriel replied, her voice strangled in sheepish embarrassment. Éomer laughed heartily.

"So much the better for the country's morale on such a miserable winter day."

"How can you say that so lightly?" Lothíriel asked him, her cheeks flushing even redder. He chuckled at her indignation and raised her chin to look in her eyes.

"If it means that they think we are happy together, and - " he grinned at her bristle of horror, and continued, "Working valiantly to produce little Éomers and Lothíriels, then I do not see the problem with their knowing what we get up to."

Lothíriel swallowed furiously and rolled away, sure that her face would reveal her secret. She said nothing. He had ventured too close to the truth of the matter.

Éomer laughed and pulled her close, spooning her with his body. "Did I embarrass you?" he asked gently, lacing his fingers with her own. "I did not mean to, forgive me."

She shrugged and gave a noncommittal reply. "This is all very new to me."

"And to me," he said softly, rolling her over onto her back so she was looking up at him. He was all seriousness now. "But I realized there in the snow that there has been a lot of lost time between us that I would like to make up for."

She smiled at his words, forgetting her chagrin and that she had a secret to hide. "Then I am glad of it."

He kissed her mouth softly and then lay down again. Lothíriel laid her head on his chest and wrapped a leg over him, reveling in the happiness she felt. They had not only begun where they had left off, but seemed to have deepened in their closeness. He was almost an open book before her. Now if only she could tell him the news which lingered ever present on her mind.

"Whose idea was it to light the candles?" Éomer asked after a time musingly. "To guide us home, I mean."

Lothíriel smiled softly, and took her time in answering. "My own."

The hand stroking her hair stopped short. "Yours?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him. "I thought you might need every last thread of hope."

"You saved us all, Lothíriel," he replied in tender awe, meeting her gaze. He let out a heavy breath. "I owe you my life."

She shook her head gently and raised herself up to kiss his mouth. "None of that. I only did what any woman would do to help her husband."

"You did what a queen of Rohan would do," he countered. "You have proved your worth not only to me but to my country."

"Ours," she whispered with fervor, stopping his words with her fingertips. "Our country."

* * *

"Éothain, how are you feeling?" Éomer asked his friend that afternoon, laying a hand on his uninjured shoulder. He had gone to visit with all the wounded men, those who were bad enough to warrant staying in beds in the Golden Hall.

Éothain blinked up at him, and shrugged with one shoulder. Though he was pale and wan, shadows rimming his eyes, he looked more disgruntled than in pain. "Fine, but they will not let me move."

"You lost so much blood that you are too weak to be moved. You must rest," said a voice behind Éomer. He looked back and saw Brithwyn, a pitcher of something in her hand. She curtsied low to him.

"Your majesty," she said, lowering her eyes, which were rimmed in dark circles.

"So you are caring for our wounded, Brithwyn," said Éomer in greeting to the woman. "It is kind of you."

"I do what is needed of me," she said politely, but a softness in her voice betrayed an earnestness behind her detached manner. "Does the King require anything of me?"

As she spoke, she poured water from the pitcher in her hand into a cup and held it to Éothain's lips, helping him to sit up enough to drink the water.

"Only your continued good care of my second-in-command," said Éomer with a smile. "But let me sit and talk with my friend a while, my lady Brithwyn. You look as if you need a rest."

She curtsied and said with dignity, "I am no lady, your majesty, only a seamstress and serving woman."

"You are my friend's salvation and therefore worthy of highest honor," said Éomer kindly. He smiled at her and took the water from her. "Please, go and rest. Sleep. He will be cared for."

When she had gone, Éomer grinned at his friend and pulled up a chair to sit next to the cot. "You look like you have been fighting a balrog."

"That bad?" laughed Éothain weakly. "I feel like it."

"You have a captivating woman nursing you."

Éothain sighed and turned his head in the direction Brithwyn had gone. "She has not left my side since last night. It is almost as if we are friends again, yet she…" He stopped and shook his head, the motion jarring his shoulder and causing him to hiss in pain.

"She what?" asked Éomer, curious. "Stay still, Éothain."

Éothain laughed softly, trying to hide the pain he so obviously felt. When he explained, he spoke haltingly. "She refuses to talk about anything other than my needing to rest and heal. I want to talk to her, to ask her why she helps me. Does she want to reconcile? Yet it seems, in a way, that she helps me out of guilt or duty, not because she wants to be friends or… that she has entirely forgiven me."

Éomer paused and considered his words carefully. He did not want to admit that he had expressed the same cynical conclusions to Lothíriel that very morning. After seeing Brithwyn's manner around him, though, he wondered if he had been too hasty to condemn her. "I think perhaps - it is she who needs your forgiveness, not the other way around. Perhaps she helps you in order to earn it. But you must wait and see."

"She sewed up my wounds," said Éothain dejectedly with a sigh, "But she rips a hole in my heart with every step. I do not know how to fill it. I cannot let her back in."

"Perhaps you must," offered Éomer. "Let her in. I think she wants you to do so. Perhaps she could mend your heart the way she did your shoulder."

"Have you taken your own advice?" Éothain asked his king bluntly after a brief pause, taking in his words. "I cannot take such counsel from one who has long kept his own wounds raw and empty, so if you still keep the queen at an arm's length, then - "

"Enough," Éomer said, holding up a hand. He did not feel he kept his wife at an arm's length - certainly not just now. Who was Éothain to reject his counsel and condemn him? "I am not trying to tell you how to live your life."

"But you are," said Éothain, half-raising himself up before collapsing again. He swore in pain. "You are lecturing me."

"As you do to me!" exclaimed Éomer, irritated. Éothain lectured him constantly, and the minute he threw Éothain's advice back at him, he was met with this treatment. "You have lectured me countless times, when I am older and your commander besides."

Éothain made a scoffing noise and looked at the ceiling.

"I held pressure over your wound, and bandaged it out of my own clothing, and carried you on my horse through a blizzard," said Éomer, standing up. His fury was only growing stronger. "You would be dead if not for me. So go on, reject my counsel. Ungrateful little bastard."

The other man looked like he wanted to insult Éomer in return but was fighting it. Éomer let out a sound of disgust and turned on his heel. "I will continue this talk with you later. I have more pressing matters to address that involve the men that put you here."

* * *

However, more pressing matters would have to wait.

"Your majesty, come quickly," cried Brithwyn, bursting in on the council meeting, which due to the amount of people in Meduseld was being held in a smaller room. "Éothain is unwell."

A rustle of unsettled murmurs passed through the members of the council, but whether it was in reaction to this news or Brithwyn's disruption was unclear.

"Did you send for the healer?" asked Lothíriel, standing up too quickly. She swayed with the sudden lightheadedness that came with the movement and sat down again immediately, head in her hands.

"Are you all right, my lady queen?" asked Lord Hereward, who was closest to her. Once so distrusting of her, he had grown accustomed to and even seemed to have come to admire her in the weeks of Éomer's absence. He was really a kindly old man underneath it all.

"I am fine, thank you," she said, standing up again more slowly. Her pregnancy was not the concern here.

Éomer had barely noticed, his eyes fixed on Brithwyn's face, having stood immediately. His jaw was set. "What is it?"

"He is burning hot with fever. He does not seem to recognize anyone, and talks nonsense," said Brithwyn, her breathing rapid. She had plainly been running. "I sent for Freyawyn - she was already on her way to come check on the wounded. She is with him now. He is getting worse."

"Let us go," said Éomer brusquely, "Take me to him. Lothíriel - come with me. Éowyn - adjourn the meeting."

Éowyn nodded and put a hand on Lothíriel's arm at her questioning look. "He needs you with him," she said softly, so that no one could hear, "He is scared."

Lothíriel nodded. "Of course," she said and followed her husband and King, and Brithwyn, to Éothain's bedside.

The grey-haired healer was there already, kneeling beside Éothain's cot and examining the wound. Éothain's eyes were closed as if he was sleeping, but he jerked his head from side to side as if avoiding insects or some other unseen being.

"Infection," Freyawyn said when they arrived, not even looking up to acknowledge them. "It is spreading beyond the wound."

"What can you do?" asked Éomer sharply.

"You know as well as I do, Éomer King, that there is little to be done once infections sets on its course," the woman said, looking up at him directly. "If it was in an arm or a leg, perhaps amputation would suffice, but in the shoulder, so close to the chest, that cannot be done."

Éomer swore furiously. "I will not accept this."

"There must be something you can do," said Lothíriel. Beside her, Brithwyn was shaking visibly. Lothíriel put an arm around her to steady her.

"I will open up the wound and apply a poultice to try to draw out the poison," said Freyawyn. "But nothing is certain." She laid a hand on Éothain's forehead and glanced at the throngs of people who were still in the Golden Hall. Éothain murmured something unintelligible. "He should be moved to a place that is quieter than this hall."

"That can be arranged," said Éomer quickly. "Anything."

"Let me work, then we will see," Freyawyn said. She looked at Brithywn. "You, girl. Come, I need your help."

Brithwyn looked terrified. "I -I can't," she said, trembling under Lothiriel's arm. She looked at Lothíriel pleadingly, suddenly seeming years younger than she was. "I cannot help him; please do not make me."

Lothíriel looked at her with compassion, cupping her cheek. She did not quite understand, but she knew that Brithwyn was exhausted. "No one will make you. Let me help," she said to Freyawyn, "I have worked in the Healing Houses of Minas tirith and have a steady hand and heart. Brithwyn, go and prepare the chamber I stayed in when I first came here."

Brithwyn looked ready to cry but she nodded firmly and went to do as she was told.

Freyawyn looked at her appraisingly. "You did have matters well in hand last night. Come here and hold him steady. King Éomer, you as well."

Lothíriel knelt at Éothain's head and laid her hands on his brow and good shoulder. Éothain's skin was moist and hot. Éomer knelt beside her, placing his hands next to hers. Lothíriel glanced at him. He looked furious and frightened, a muscle clenching in his jaw. She laid one of her hands over his and felt a shudder go through him.

"I am here," she mouthed, catching his eye. He nodded wordlessly, and together they turned towards the task at hand.

* * *

A short time later, Éothain had been moved on a makeshift stretcher to the chamber that Brithwyn had prepared. He was sleeping now, his fever still burning high. Freyawyn had gone to tend the others, saying gently that all that could be done now would be to keep Éothain in some measure of comfort and to pray to the Valar to spare him.

Lothíriel and Éomer were there in the room with him, a heavy hopeless silence hanging there between them.

"If he dies - " began Éomer finally, and swallowed, unable to finish. His eyes were rimmed in red, as if he had been crying, or fighting to hold back tears.

Lothíriel looked away from her husband and back at Éothain's fitful sleeping form. She understood what Éomer was feeling, knowing without having asked how deeply he cared for Éothain in spite of his frequent anger with him. And she knew that Éomer was done with losing people; that he would take no more of it. She shuddered inwardly. She too feared for Éothain. He had been a true friend to her since she had come to Rohan, open and a listening ear when no one else seemed to understand. He must not die. He was too dear to them all. And he had fought so hard for his life, before. It was not fair. He must not die.

"I know," was all she said.

Beside her, Éomer's hand found her own and squeezed it tightly as if he would never let go. Lothíriel resolved, though she herself felt rather dizzy, that she would stay with him as long as he required her.

* * *

Late that night, Éomer was kneeling by Éothain's side, his head bowed, when the door creaked open. He looked up, expecting to see Lothíriel, or Éowyn, or Brithwyn, or the angel of death, but it was none of these. Lothíriel's maid, who he knew was Brithwyn's sister, stood in the doorway, only recognizable in silhouette because of her distinctive hair. With the light from behind her haloing her curly pale hair, the girl did look a bit like a heavenly being, Éomer thought distractedly. What was her name? Isemay.

"I beg your pardon, your majesty," Isemay exclaimed, dropping a curtsy. "I thought that my sister would be here."

"Your sister is with the queen," explained Éomer, standing up. "My lady was not feeling well and I sent Brithwyn to be with her."

Earlier he had noticed that Lothíriel had seemed unwell. She had brushed it off as pure tiredness but admitted to feeling a little ill. Éomer, slightly concerned by Lothíriel's symptoms, had urged her to go to bed. In truth, though he had been grateful for Lothíriel's presence, and even dependent upon her being there, a part of him wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

"I do not want to leave you," she had said to him seriously when he had bade her to retire. "I am more concerned for you, Éomer, than for myself."

He had kissed her forehead wearily and told her that her making herself unwell was not going to help him or Éothain in any way. With a sigh, she had gone, but she had ordered him to send for her at any change in Éothain's condition.

Éomer had been sitting with Éothain ever since, sponging his fevered forehead with cool cloths and… praying. There was nothing else to do.

Isemay curtsied again, bringing him back into the present. "I will leave you be, my lord."

"No, you may stay, if you wish," Éomer conceded as she made to leave. "If you came to see Éothain, you must do so."

She looked at him somberly. "I did."

Éomer gestured to the bed, and went to light another candle, for one had nearly burnt out. He watched out of the corner of his eye with curiosity as Isemay approached Éothain's side tentatively, with a glance at Éomer, sorrow painting her sweet features. He wondered why she had come. Perhaps - Éothain had spoken often of her with affection, Éomer realized. He would have known her since she was practically a babe, after all. If Éothain's affections for Brithwyn were as a man for a woman, than Isemay was an adopted little sister to him, was she not?

"Hello, Éothain," he heard her whisper, reaching out to touch his brow. Gently, so gently, she lowered her lips to his forehead and pressed a chaste kiss there. "It's Isemay, your little goblin. Please come back and you can tease me all you want, I swear it."

Éomer watched this unfold with a clenching in his heart. "You know him well."

"We always thought he would marry my sister," said Isemay. "I fancied him at one point, when my sister was married to - oh, no. You will not tell him, will you?" she asked Éomer fearfully, a blush painting her cheeks.

Éomer shook his head in amusement, forgetting his worry for a moment. "Not a word, I swear it."

"But I always knew he would never look at me the way he does my sister," said Isemay quickly. "I am just a child to him, and besides I would kill him if he ever married anyone but Brithwyn. But now I think I would forgive him even that if he would just get better."

"He is fond of you, child," Éomer said simply, thinking he too would forgive Éothain every offense he had ever made or had yet to make if he would pull through.

"He is the best man in the world," said Isemay, taking Éothain's hand. She looked at Éomer quickly. "Begging your pardon, your majesty. You are a fine man too."

Éomer found himself chuckling, albeit with difficulty. "It's all right. I think so too."

"He is like a brother to me," Isemay said, her voice breaking.

Éomer swallowed hard. "To me as well."

She looked up at him with wide blue eyes that were filled with tears, a trembling smile on her face. "Then - we are almost related." She giggled suddenly. "If only by connection."

Éomer looked at her, surprised by her audacity, and found a true smile cracked his face despite the darkness within him. "I suppose we are. That makes you a very highborn lady by connection."

She laughed again. "Not me. A lady would never dare speak to the King the way I know I do. I offend propriety every day. I cannot help it."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I have noticed."

She stood and bowed her head as if expecting admonishment. He smiled and laid a hand on that curly head. "It is refreshing to be addressed as frankly as you have done," he said gently, meaning every word. "You made me laugh when I thought all hope was gone."

She raised her head and looked up at him through long pale lashes. "He will be all right, won't he?" she asked him earnestly, a tremor in her voice that betrayed her optimism.

Éomer sighed and shook his head. "I cannot say," he replied honestly. She looked down, but he tipped up her chin, wanting to give her some hope. "But he has hung on this long, so perhaps he will come through. He is fighting for life, little bird. Something keeps him with us."

"Love?" said Isemay softly. He nodded gravely.

"Yes, perhaps it is love." He chucked her under the chin and said lightly. "Now, will you do something for me? Go and check on my wife. She is perhaps sleeping."

Isemay nodded and curtsied, looking back at him with a sudden smile. "I like little bird more than goblin," she said. "Maybe you can tell Éothain that, your majesty."

He watched her go, amused. His heart felt lighter, as if her presence had lingered in the room even after she was gone. He looked at his friend and sighed, barely daring to hope.

"So, my friend, did you hear that?"

* * *

[A/N: Ummm so lots happening here. My pen is running away with me again! New chapter will be up shortly, I promise. I did end up changing the rating up to M because not a single person seemed to have a problem with it! Indeed, most of you voted in favor. I appreciate all the feedback I received on this matter and am overjoyed that so many people are enjoying this story.

xox - GB]


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